


A Place of Greater Safety

by Little_Ghost14



Series: Rhaegar, Lyanna and Jon [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:24:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2584553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ghost14/pseuds/Little_Ghost14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HERE BE BOOK/SHOW SPOILERS!</p><p>Plot Summary: Something happens to Jon that forces Ned to face up to the past. Torn between years of resentment and the realisation that everything she thought she knew was a lie, Catelyn finds herself caught between a rock and a hard place. </p><p>Spoilers.  R+L=J.  Multiple PoV.  Set about two years before the show/books, when Jon and Robb are roughly 12/13.  Rickon hasn’t yet been born.  Apologies if there are errors with the timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What the Eye Doesn't See

**Author's Note:**

> HERE BE BOOK/SHOW SPOILERS!

They awoke before dawn, when the night still shrouded the castle in a stifling darkness. Darkness and silence, in which even the softest of sounds seemed to carry for miles. A mouse scurrying along the skirting boards, or an owl hooting from the branches that scraped against the windows of their bedchamber. But if Catelyn pressed her ear to Ned’s chest, the sound of heartbeat was all she could hear. A steady, rhythmic beat that she could feel when she pressed the flat of her hand against his chest. Whenever she blinked, he could feel her eyelashes brushing against his bare skin. A small, familiar sensation that brought a rare smile to his lips when he remembered that he was not alone in this world. She was there, all the time; his Cat.

Not far from where they slowly came too, embers glowed red in the hearth to cast some relief to the night, but the heat was long gone. They both shivered simultaneously as the cold air rushed under the disturbed bedding as they shuffled closer to each other on the feather mattress. Catelyn winced, but Ned remained stoic – he was a Northman to the very sinew and seemingly impervious. Somewhere over her head, Ned stifled a yawn.

“Good morning,” she whispered, her voice low and still heavy with sleep.

Still beyond coherent words, Ned responded by placing one hand on her head and running his fingers through her hair. She didn’t mind the occasional snagging knot as she stretched her head upwards to kiss his jawline. Lips brushing against rough stubble which she hoped might have some magical effect and restore some life to him. But even in the semi-darkness, she could see his eyelids drooping closed again.

“Ned,” she said. “You can’t go back to sleep-“

“I am the Lord of Winterfell,” he cut her off with a lilt of amusement in his voice.

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Duty must call.”

She would that they could stay like that forever. But the heavy sigh that left his lips signalled that he too remembered what day it was. Or rather, that he had to be taken away from the Castle to attend matters farther north. Some business with the small folk that would occupy him until long past nightfall. Although she knew it was futile, she launched an attempt to dissuade him all the same.

“Must it be you who goes? Can’t someone else do it?”

“I can’t delegate being Warden of the North, Cat.”

It was lonely at the top, Catelyn realised that. But it didn’t stop her from breathing a small sigh of resignation. It would have been the same had she married Brandon Stark; duty would have come first and she would be the one manning the ship of Winterfell in her husband’s absence. By the Old Gods and the New, she had sworn her love to Eddard, and love him she did. Perhaps not at first, but the bond between them had grown steadfast. Love followed, not long after.

“Are you taking the boys with you?” she asked, thinking of one in particular.

“If by ‘boys’ you mean Jon; no I’m not. He’s staying here with Rodrik and you probably won’t even notice him.”

Catelyn was grateful for the poor light for it hid her blushes, if not the fact that Ned’s hackles had been raised.

“I certainly didn’t mean it in that way,” she protested, feebly. “A chance for you to spend some time together without me getting in the way.”

Or rather, where she would not have to see them together. What the eye doesn’t see the heart cannot grieve.

Ned startled her by suddenly rolling out of bed and covering himself with a fur lined cloak. She could tell by his hurried, jerky movements that his annoyance was growing. Every single conversation they had that began with Jon Snow ended with a picture like this. Her ashamed and angry in equal measure, and Ned silent and stormy in equal measure with both of them several feet apart. Neither of them ever gained any ground; victory for one side or the other remained as distant as ever. It was nothing more than an open wound that seemed to suppurate at will.

Ned turned sharply on his heels, looking at her through the pale dawn light that now filtered through the shutters. She could see the exasperation clear in his dark grey eyes.

“Even if you do cross paths with the boy, can’t you just show him a little kindness? No one’s asking you to make him Robb’s equal. No one’s asking you to curtsey to him. Just show a little kindness.”

Catelyn sat up in bed and drew her knees up to her chest, one hand kneading a knot of tension at the bridge of her nose. They all made it sound so simple, as though her emotions were a faucet that she could switch on and off at will. But they were not the ones who had to look in that child’s eyes and see their own fears and the ghost of a betrayal looking back at them. They were not the ones who had spent the best part of a year kneeling in the Sept until their knees were raw and their backs ached, praying for their husband’s safe return from war; only to find that he had spent that time humping some unknown, doe-eyed little whore who didn’t even have the decency to live beyond the moment she had whelped his bastard child. To compound matters, when she wanted nothing to do with the child, it was as though she were the one who had broken her vows. All without so much as a word of explanation as to the identity of the child’s mother. With that in mind, she responded with how she truly felt.

“I have never been anything but ‘kind’ to … the boy.”

She wanted to leave him out in the woods for the wolves to finish off. Compared to that, she really had been kind to him.

Ned’s shoulders slumped as he sat back down on the edge of the bed. Never one to part ways with his wife on a sour note, he closed off the conversation by planting a kiss on her forehead.

“That’s all I ask,” he concluded.

By the time the sun had fully risen, the children were lined up outside the Keep of Winterfell. Robb at the head of them, with Maester Luwin taking charge of Bran. Septa Mordane just about had Arya under control, while Sansa stood pretty and demure at her other side. Already, Catelyn believed her eldest daughter was shaping up to be the natural beauty of the family; while Arya and Bran all inherited the Stark’s northern appearance. Robb was Tully, too. But offset with his father’s quiet manners and sense of duty. He was her firstborn; her pride and joy.

Catelyn watched them all proudly as each exchanged a quiet word and a kiss with their father as they waved him off. Finally, Ned reached her. His hands came to rest on her hips as their foreheads gently bumped together, leaning in close enough to kiss. The smell of his damp furs already filled her nostrils, a heady scent of horse and hay from his Destrier beside which they were now stood. When he raised his head again, he looked her in the eye, grey locking into green as one hand brushed a loose strand of auburn hair from her face. Already, the younger children were being ushered inside before they caught their deaths from the cold, leaving them as good as alone.

“Take care,” said Ned, one gloved hand resting against her jaw.

Catelyn managed to smile. “You too, husband. We will all be here to greet you when you get back.”

After one final kiss, he mounted his horse and prodded his spurs into the beast’s flanks. Their Captain of the Guard, Jory Cassel, led the way, with squires and retainers following to form a sizeable procession heading towards the rising portcullis. Slowly, they departed and she watched them all as they went. As the last horse ambled past, her view of the opposite side of the forecourt was cleared, revealing Jon Snow himself. A lean boy, but not tall; pale with hair so dark it was almost ebony and a mess of curls unlike anything she had seen on anyone. Just like his mother? Possibly. His dark eyes trained on hers; they regarded each other from that distance. His expression unreadable, but she could almost sense the silent pleading there. A forlorn appeal, always directed at her. It was something she could not bear to look at, and that morning was no exception. Even with Ned’s words echoing in her head, she had to turn her back and walk away.

* * *

 

Loose tendrils of damp hair had fallen into Jon’s eyes, blown there by the cold Northern winds. By the time he had pushed them back with one hand, Lady Stark was already on her way inside. For a moment, he watched her back reclining from view. As loath as he was to admit it, her mere presence was still enough to send a cold thrill of sickening dread down his spine. Often, it wasn’t what she said, but what she left unsaid. That cold look in her eyes; the grim set of her jaw as she looked down at him. The aura of utter contempt she exuded when his base-born presence accidentally shifted into her orbit. She was the great leveller in his life for when he got too happy at the bosom of the family, or too secure in himself. He knew he could rely on her to set him back in his place with one withering glance. Worst of all, was watching her with her own children. The way she cared, the way she embraced them when they fell and caressed their tears away. She was a loving mother, with a heart fit to burst. But that was them, and he had no choice other than to be himself. A blight on her family that stained the honour of House Stark.

He listened to the sound of his father’s horse’s hoof falls fading into the distance, feeling like his last layer of safety had been peeled away.

Wrapping his furs a little tighter around his shoulders, he turned his own back and directed himself into the bitter wind. From the corner of his eye, he could see Theon Greyjoy catching up with Robb as they made their way towards the yard where Rodrik Cassel was waiting to begin the day’s training. When they drew level with each other, Robb put out one hand to stop Theon and nodded in his direction. Jon finally raised a smile as their gaze met across the yard.

“Jon!” Robb called over, one hand cupped round his mouth. “Hurry up! We’ll be late!”

Jon’s smile widened into a grin as he broke into a sudden run to catch his brother up. When they met, Robb threw a protective arm around Jon’s shoulders, before steering him off towards the yard. Along the way, they chatted excitedly about the lesson ahead. Rodrik was the Uncle of their Captain of the Guard, and had been at Winterfell far longer than any of them had been alive. He had trained their deceased Uncle Brandon, their father and other Uncle, Benjen. According to rumour, even their late Aunt, Lyanna, had taken lessons from Rodrik, in the strictest of secrecy, of course. Now, it was their turn to receive the benefits of Rodrik’s wisdom as they made the transition from boys to men grown.

“When I’m done here, I’m joining the Night’s Watch,” Jon stated, as they rounded the North Tower towards the spot where Rodrik was waiting.

Robb almost choked on his own protest. “You can’t!”

“Great,” opined Theon, smirking that smirk he always wore. “You’re off to join the hail of human mincemeat beyond the wall. Good luck, Snow.”

Robb responded by digging his elbow into Theon’s ribs. “Leave off him, you.” However, he turned back to Jon with that look on his face. The one he wore when he may have disagreed with the method of Theon’s imparting of wisdom, but concurred with the general gist of it. “He’s right, though. You’ll be killed up there. Stay here with us. We’re your family, whatever mother says.”

How dearly Jon wished that were true. But the thought of spending the rest of his life treading on eggshells around Catelyn Tully was enough for his will to live to slowly seep through the pores of his skin. Progression in the conversation was mercifully circumvented by Rodrik chivvying them along impatiently. Already, he had their wooden swords propped against the perimeter fence, waiting for them.

It was cold and getting colder, the moment they picked up their practise swords they launched straight into the session just to keep warm. Theon who, at seventeen was four years their senior, had already progressed onto a steel sword and parried with Rodrik, demonstrating to Jon and his brother how it should be done. They kept going until the cold conspired with their exertions and made every muscle ache with the effort. When they did stop, they retreated swiftly beneath the nearest shelter to escape the beginnings of snow shower starting to drift down from above. Theon and Robb instantly fell into idle chatter about technique and method. It wasn’t that they consciously froze Jon out, he intentionally drifted to the side lines, where he could think more clearly and gather his own thoughts.

It wasn’t long until his thirteenth name day, and the sense that time was running out weighed heavily on him. He couldn’t imagine Lady Stark tolerating his presence in Winterfell a moment longer than necessary. As soon as he hit adulthood, he knew he would be out on his ear and where else could he go, but the wall? He breathed a deep sigh and looked out over the yard and forecourt of Winterfell, feeling once more like the uninvited guest who had stayed until the end of the party.

“While you’re looking so comfortable there, Snow, why don’t you take this over to Mikken’s?”

Rodrik’s voice, soon joined by Theon and Robb’s hastily stifled laughter, jolted Jon out of his reverie. He turned round and was met instantly with a large, heavy pail of water and a newly refined hammer, which he frowned at incredulously.

“Mikken?” he asked. “It’s only water-“

“For the forge! Their pipe burst, so he needs to come here for water until its mended,” Rodrik retorted. “Get a move on and save the man a journey.”

Resigned to his onerous chore, Jon secured his grip on the pail while Rodrik slipped the hammer into the pocket of his cloak. It felt as heavy as a lead weight and pulled the material clear of his left shoulder so that one hem trailed the ground as he trudged across the yard. The bucket felt as like it was slowly teasing his arms out of their own shoulder sockets and he had to walk leaning backwards to avoid losing balance and stumbling forwards. But despite his best efforts, he lost balance anyway.

Just as he rounded the corner to head for the forge, he collided with something solid. He put out one foot to try and stop his fall, but only succeeded in tripping over the hem of his cloak and falling flat on someone else’s face, hurling the water all over them as he went down. When his head stopped spinning, he looked into the face of the person he had collided with, and the breath hitched in his throat.

“Lady Stark!”

All round them people had begun to notice his accident. Some stopped what they were doing and were now openly gawping over at them. But it wasn’t until someone snorted laughter that Catelyn suddenly got hold of her wits. Her face contorted with fury, turning beet red as, moments later, a blow caught Jon across the right cheek. The slap ringing out and the sharp stinging causing him to recoil so fast that as he tried to stand, he only succeeding in falling again. But he managed to twist his body so that he fell away from Lady Stark.

“You stupid, stupid child!” she spat him, furiously.

Uneasy in the knowledge that he was about to be flayed alive, Jon staggered back to his feet. Meanwhile, Rodrik had come running from the yard to see what the commotion was all about. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw them both, Lady Stark drenched and Jon nursing a slapped face, the bucket dropped at their feet with Jon’s cloak now pulled clean off and lying in a dirty puddle. After taking a moment to register what he was seeing, Rodrik rushed to help Lady Stark up off the ground – something Jon had been too stunned to do. But the Lady was already back on her feet, and fixing Jon in a deathly glare as she swooped down on him.

“Go easy on the boy, My Lady, it was an accident-“

But Rodrik’s appeals for clemency fell on deaf ears as she clutched the scruff of Jon’s neck and shoved him back towards the Castle. Jon’s heartbeat was hammering painfully against his ribs as the full measure of the trouble he had gotten himself into was slowly revealed to him. But Rodrik was following close behind, still trying to explain the situation and intercede on Jon’s behalf.

“I really should have known it would be too heavy for the boy, My Lady … he was only following orders…”

But as soon as they reached the Castle, Jon found himself being frog marched into the Great Hall. All the servants stopped to stare, making him feel even smaller as Lady Stark delivered another sharp nudge between his shoulders, keeping him moving. Once inside, Lady Stark dismissed the servants with a series of angry commands that made even Jon flinch although they were not directed at him. Her wet clothes were freezing her, however. She paced the floor rapidly, scolding him as she went and berating his clumsiness and shivering like a dying leaf in a storm. When she stopped, she glared from Rodrik, to Jon and back again.

“You keep him here,” she commanded. “I’ll back to deal with him properly, later.”

They watched her leave, listened to the sound of her footsteps receding down the corridor outside. Alone together, Jon still made no attempt at conversation. The dread of whatever punishment she had in store for him choked the words before he had a chance to form them. Loath to show such cowardice, Jon sat at one of the lower tables quietly, trying to keep his roiling emotions under control. But his mind was racing ten to the dozen, so much so that he didn’t notice Rodrik hauling his cloak off and throwing it round his own shoulders.

“The Servant’s door,” he said, pulling Jon to his feet.

“What?”

“Your father will be back soon and I will personally explain what happened and why,” explained Rodrik, now steering him towards the door. “Wait in Mikken’s forge for your father to come home; leave Lady Stark to me. Go on now.”

Relief washed over Jon, causing him to almost fall over again. “But what about-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Rodrik cut over him. “Your father will understand what happened and why I let you go. He’ll make peace again.”

Still, Jon dithered. “Thank you-“

“Get on with you, boy!”

Without wasting another second, Jon wrapped himself up properly in Rodrik’s cloak before slipping through the servants door with Rodrik promptly closed behind him. Down the stairs and through the small network of passageways that no one except household staff used, Jon didn’t stop until he reached the outdoors again. Even then, he didn’t stop. Mikken’s forge was nearby, but seizing an opportunity to slip beyond the Castle walls opened up to he as a supply wagon ambled through the postern gate in the curtain wall. All he had to do was slip past the guards while they were busy with the tradesmen and take shelter beside the fortifications. Out of sight of everyone else, it was where he could finally indulge in the tears that had been threatening to overwhelm him since the incident happened.

* * *

 

Underneath it all, Catelyn knew she was being unreasonable. She had always said she would never strike her own children in anger; but Ned’s bastard was not her child. But her fury was such that her hands shook as she changed her clothes; she relived the humiliating fall over and over and the sickening feeling of having that Bastard sprawled all over her. When her dry clothes were in place and fitted properly, she stopped and tried to calm herself down. It had been an accident. But he had still been a klutz. She could leave it to his father to punish him, but Ned never did. They all felt so sorry for him because he had no mother and she, Catelyn, was always so cold to him. No, his sympathy card had expired.

But by the time she reached the hall, finding Rodrik alone, any ebbing of temper was stilled.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

Rodrik shrugged, leaning against the back of a chair casually. “Look’s like he ran off, M’Lady! I tried to catch ‘im, but you know how fast they are at that age and I’m not as young as I once was.”

Horsehit, was Catelyn’s first reaction. But she couldn’t come out and call the man a liar. She let herself fall to one of the benches at the lower table, directly across from Rodrik and ran a hand through her hair. Defeated, she hadn’t got in her to start falling out with her own household staff. “Let him stew in his own juices,” she said, sourly. “He can’t hide forever.”


	2. Family, Duty, Honour

“Give the boy time, my lady.”

 

Rodrik’s expression was earnest as he looked across the table at Catelyn, inducing a deep sigh from her. She could see he wasn’t trying to be argumentative, so checked her temper and sat in the same place that Jon had left vacant after his escape. Massaging a knot of tension at her temples, she tried to marshal her thoughts and feelings. No real harm had been done; she had just been left red faced with an equally red faced boy sprawled all over her like a nasty rash. The way in which Theon Greyjoy had smirked at her hadn’t helped, but then Theon smirked at everyone and everything like that. Given his circumstances he didn’t have a lot else to smirk about; perhaps she ought to be congratulating herself for services rendered?  

 

“I would have been angered just the same if it had been any of my own children, you know,” she said, still justifying herself. “It wasn’t because it was … well, you know.”

 

_Say his name,_ she thought to herself, _just say his name_. But what was the point. It didn’t matter what she did, or what prompted her actions, others would always she assume she was acting out of spite toward Ned’s bastard son. If she did nothing, then she would be letting him get away with things her own brood would be punished for. Either way, she found herself caught in that unique no-win position. While she organised her thoughts, Rodrik demonstrated a continued presence of mind by sending a passing servant to fetch them some spiced wine.

 

Once they’d been served, Catelyn waited until they were alone again. The fires had been stoked and fresh candles set out in the candelabras positioned at either end of the high table. Normally unused during the day, the Great Hall was usually prepped for the night ahead at that hour and the servants used to having the run of the place. Being in there at that moment felt like being an obstacle in the road. Even after all these years, the North had ways of making her feel out of place.

 

“Whatever I do by him, it will be the wrong thing,” she explained, toying with the stem of her goblet.

 

“Then don’t do anything,” advised Rodrik. “The boy’s not your problem. Leave it to Lord Eddard.”

 

“I know you’re right,” she sighed.

 

Soothing her nerves with a long sip of the spiced wine, she caught Rodrik rising to his feet from the tail of her eye.

 

“Excuse me, my lady, there’s something I need to attend to.”

 

With that, he left her to her wine and her thoughts. She couldn’t even remember what she was doing before Jon ploughed into her in the yard. Sansa and Arya would be with Septa Mordane; Robb would be training with Theon; Bran was being regaled with Old Nan’s stories by the ancient’s own fireside and Jon was now cowering in some unknown corner of the castle. As in so many other things, the only one to remain unaccounted for.

 

She brought her hands to the rim of the goblet and gave the contents a swirl, as though they might reveal her errant charge’s current whereabouts from within the opaque depths. But the mini whirl-pool inside revealed nothing but the scratched bowl of the cup itself. A Stark Direwolf snarled at her accusingly from a banner hung on the back wall of the hall; Winter is Coming, it promised. This far north, it wasn’t so much as a threat, but more a statement of fact. Unlike her own house words: Family, Duty, Honour. They were words to live by, as old Hoster Tully had drummed in to Lysa and her, when they were girls growing up in Riverrun. Now that she had accounted for her family, she knew she had a duty to find the boy. On her honour.

 

Draining what was left of her wine, she got to her feet and swept from the hall with her skirts hitched over her boots lest she should fall. Again. Such strong drink so early in the day had left her light headed, a feeling exacerbated momentarily as she stepped out into the bracingly cold afternoon. She had last seen Jon near the yard, where the boys like to practise sword play and it seemed as good a place as any to begin. But as she crossed the yard, Rodrik emerged from Mikken’s forge looking flushed from the heat of the furnaces inside. He inclined his head deferentially as he approached her.

  
“I thought he might have sought sanctuary with Mikken, but no joy.”

 

The worry clouded his expression for just a moment. A small, fleeting thing that she would have missed, had she blinked. But she caught it all the same. But she dismissed it with a shrug.

 

“Robb is bound to have seen him,” she reasoned. “They’re joined at the hip.”

 

But moments later and Robb was looking up at them nonplussed, from where he sat beside a whetstone in the yard, blunt sword in hand. “He said something about joining the Night’s Watch.”

 

Things had been bad that morning, but not that bad. Catelyn rolled her eyes before thanking her eldest son and asking him to keep an eye out. But even in her heart of hearts, she knew the boy would easily cover for the one he regarded as a full-blooded brother.

 

“It’s been more than two hours now,” she stated, as they crossed the yard back towards the Castle.

 

“Long enough my lady, but not long enough to have vanished altogether,” Rodrik answered.

 

If something happened to the boy, Catelyn knew it would be she who was blamed. His melancholy nature was blamed on her not loving him; his taciturn moods were her fault for not showing him enough attention and his skittering nerves were her fault because he was scared of her, although she had never once given him reason to be. “Organise a search of the Castle; I want him found before his father gets home.”

* * *

 

Jon had never been beyond the walls of Winterfell before. Not on his own, at any rate. Once, several years ago, he had managed to slip beyond the same postern gate he had just escaped from again. But one of the staff had seen him; they ran across the thoroughfare as though they’d been set on fire and managed to catch his wrist before steering him back to safety and straight to his father for a thorough telling off. He had been packed off to the bed with the threat of a spanking ringing in his ears, should a repeat performance ever be forthcoming. But it was only because he was so little, back then. So little that the world outside had made him feel like a loose leaf being blown on the wind. Too small to be significant, and at the mercy of elements far beyond his own control.

 

Things were different now. He had to find the main road and intercept his father as he returned from dealing with the small folk farther north. If Lady Stark got to him first, she would make out that that morning’s incident was all his fault, like he deliberately set out to humiliate her in front of the entire household staff. No matter what he said to the contrary, Lord Stark would side with his wife over him just to make her feel better about having an unwanted bastard under her roof. It was the unfairness of it all that got to him. He had been there before and he wasn’t about to let it happen again. If he got to Lord Eddard first, he could put his side of the story without interruption and make sure he got a fair hearing.

 

So he trudged along the seemingly endless road, wrapped up in an oversized fur that trailed the ground behind him, constantly listening out for the sound of approaching hoof beats. When he looked back over his shoulder, Winterfell had vanished from view round one of the bends in the road and down a steep hill. He couldn’t guess at how long it had been, but the sun still at its apex in the sky told him it wasn’t so very late. His father would still be busy, and he needn’t expect him to appear any time soon. But no matter, his nerves still prickled unpleasantly. It was like swimming in a shallow pool, before suddenly realising your feet could no longer touch the bottom and you were pulling along by the invisible current. Adrift.

 

If he turned around now, Jon was reasonably confident he could find his way home again. But his stubborn streak – the one cursed already by many who knew him – screamed against any such notion. If he did stop, he merely dug the heels of his boots into the rocky, frozen ground before trudging onwards again. Eventually, he reached a small settlement of wattle and daub dwellings set against a steep hillside, where it was sheltered from the worst of the Northern winds. As he passed, an old woman with a crooked back emerged from one of the doorways and watched him as he passed. He had whipped himself up into such a dark mood that all he could do was glower at her, until it occurred to him that these could be the small folk his father had come to see. There was no sign of the Stark banners anywhere; no menacing Direwolf growling at the cowed populace from fluttering silks. But he thought it worth a try, anyway.

 

“Has the Lord of Winterfell passed through here?”

 

The old woman looked at him, narrowing her eyes before stretching her neck out to see him better. It didn’t look promising. A concern fully realised as the woman merely reclined soundlessly back into her squat little dwelling, slamming the makeshift door behind her. _Wonderful_ , he thought to himself.  To compound matters, by the time he passed the settlement, the sun was sinking low behind the distant hills; dusk settling like a shroud over small folk and Jon alike.

 

* * *

 

Arya shot through the hazy dusk like a bolt of lightning. Her cloak, only fastened in place at her throat, billowed out behind her while Septa Mordane’s pitiable wail trailed in the atmosphere. “Arrryyyaaa!” But Ned laughed. He leaned down from the saddle of his Destrier, ready to catch hold of her and sweep her into the saddle in front of him, which he did in one fluid, graceful movement. Her squeal of delight lifted his sagging spirits after a day of grinding business among the hard pressed small folk. Once she was secure, he carefully fasted her tiny hands to the horse’s reins. She had no gloves on, but then she always seemed utterly impervious to the cold, the rains and the snows anyway. She was still smiling when he leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

 

Sometimes, as Arya grew, Ned would look at her and remember another girl who once lived with the walls of Winterfell. A girl long gone, but whose memory seemed to linger round every corner and in every chamber. Often, he heard the unexpected clash of steel sounding from the yard. He would look from his chamber windows and expect to see her still, standing in triumph over some poor squire she’d knocked into the dirt, Benjen’s sword held high over her head in triumph. “I yield! I yield!” the squires all whined from on their bellies, her feet. But the only death blow Lyanna had ever dealt was to their male pride. During those moments, their gaze would meet across the yard and they would both laugh. It echoed down the years, reaching Ned again as he cantered his youngest child around the yard for some fun and real laughter. Not just the laughter of ghosts. Being up in the saddle of a powerful war horse thrilled Arya, so tiny and yet so powerful already.

 

Other people, those household staff old enough to remember, had noticed the resemblance too. Ned had lost count of how many times someone had said something, then cut themselves off while blushing profusely, as though mention of Lyanna Stark would ignite another blazing grief in him. How he hated that feeling of being treated like a china doll. To jolt himself out of his rapidly maudlin mood, Ned cantered the Destrier back over to his reassembling host, by the portcullis he had not long ridden through. There was still no sign of Catelyn by the main entrance, nor the boys, contrary to her promise. Only Septa Mordane had arrived, with Sansa still standing quietly at her side. Two sisters had never been more chalk and cheese to each other as these.

 

“I hope you’ve been good to your sister today, or there’ll be no more horse rides for you for a while,” he warned, sending up a silent prayer he wouldn’t have to honour it.

 

“Oh yes,” she replied, twisting her neck around so that she was facing him. Her grey eyes shone black in the gathering night. “I helped her play the Find Jon game.”

 

Ned exchanged a look with Jory Cassel as they moved off toward the stables, before looking back down at Arya. Once more, she was focused on the horse, now running one hand through the beast’s mane.

 

“I see,” he replied, guardedly. “And what precipitated this thrilling sounding new game?”

 

“Was Jon also playing the Find Jon Game? Did he have to find himself?” Jory asked, grinning.

 

“No, silly, Jon was hiding so everyone had to find him,” explained Arya, with great patience. “He’s really good at it, too.”

 

Hodor was already at the stable doors, beaming his benign beam at them as he waited for the horses to be handed over. Ned dismounted and stood at the horse’s side, holding his arms open for Arya to slide into. She did, but only reluctantly. But once she had been separated from the animal, she wrapped her arms around Ned’s neck and nuzzled close as she could and settled in fast.

 

“So, who did win?” he asked, curious. Already, doubts were nagging at him about the true nature of this ‘game’.

 

“Oh, no one yet. Everyone’s still searching; even Mother,” she broke off, looking puzzled as she frowned up at him. “Does that mean Jon’s winning?”

 

Ned frowned, tightening his grip on her as carried her towards the castle. “If he is, it’ll be a pyrrhic victory at best if it’s your mother who finds him.”

 

Even after depositing Arya back into the arms of Septa Mordane, Eddard found no sign of Cat or the boys inside the Keep. Inside the Great Hall, the servants had begun laying out platters of food, ready for the evening meal, but no one was inside to even begin preparing to eat. Not even the older boys, who were usually famished after a hard day’s training. When he did find Catelyn, it was as she was rapidly descending the narrow, twisting staircase of Maester Luwin’s turret in the west wing. Her face was flushed; loose strands of auburn hair were falling loose from the plait that hung down to her waist. She came to abrupt halt, fixing him with a look that seemed to suggest she hadn’t been expecting him. Even her hands were curled into fists as they hitched up the hems of her skirts as she been dashing down the stone steps.

 

“Ned!” she exclaimed, breathlessly. “Is your son with you?”

 

The pronoun grated on his nerves. ‘Your’ son; a term of reference used exclusively for Jon. But he hadn’t time to grow cranky over trivialities now.

 

“What?” he retorted. “Of course not. I left him in your care.”

 

Her brow creased, mouth tightening as though she wanted to say something fast but was having second thoughts. For a moment, it even looked as though she was about to retreat backwards up the stairs again.

 

“Cat, what’s going on?” he demanded, feeling the first flicker of impatience flaring inside him.

 

“He’s gone,” she finally blurted out. “He just ran off, Ned, no one’s seen him since early this afternoon.”

 

It seemed to take a moment for what she was saying to sink in. However once it did, the understanding brought with it a sudden surge of hot panic.

 

“Gods, Cat, I left him with you for one afternoon and now he’s gone!” he began. “Jon wouldn’t have run off for nothing, he’s not a simpleton. What exactly happened?”

 

If they had been searching the castle as long as Arya implied, then it was clear that Jon wasn’t actually in the castle. A thought that added a tinge of sickening worry to Ned’s initial panic. All feelings not abetted when Catelyn continued to look scrunched up with worry. She dithered over her explanations, skirting round the issue and indirectly giving him more cause for concern. Some stupid accident out in the yard. He didn’t know whether to be angry with Catelyn for overreacting, or angrier still with Jon for doing the same and running for the hills.

 

Wordlessly, he turned away from her. But before he could walk, her hands fell on his shoulders and turned him back round. Catelyn had recovered herself and was standing tall before him, now. An expression of emboldened clarity on her face as she cupped his chin in her hands.

  
“I swear Ned, I have been searching for that boy from the moment he went missing,” she said, her voice heavy with urgency. “I wouldn’t let any child wander around lost and frightened. Surely you of all people know that?”

 

Slowly, his conflicting emotions abated as he looked her in the eye. A look she easily returned. But it did nothing to alter the fact that the child was out there somewhere, alone and in danger. More danger than anyone could ever know. There were times, like this, when he yearned to tell her; when the truth weighed heavy in his gut like a lead weight he was condemned to bear for the rest of his days. In silence, he took a backwards step.

 

“Get Hodor to saddle the horses,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “Form up a search party, we ride out immediately.”

 

Catelyn stepped around him to see that his orders were fulfilled; Ned quick to follow her anyway. All the while, an old promise he made many years before came back to haunt him. So strong, it brought the faint scented traces of blue winter roses with it. He could almost feel her there, at his shoulder. Promises made, bound him in invisible chains. Memories he had to kick back into the depths of his mind one more time as he mobilised his men to ensure that old promised remained fulfilled.

 


	3. Wrong Direction

Everywhere looked the same in the dark. In each and every direction, a blank and unpunctuated darkness obscured even the ground Jon walked on. Every so often, a loose stone found its way into his boot, digging so sharply into his foot that he was forced to stop and grope his way to the ground to sit and remove it before his feet began to bleed. By the time he was done, he would be disorientated and forgotten which way he had come and which way he was meant to be going. More than once, he had stumbled and fallen, grazing his hands as he caught his fall; leaving cuts that stung like bitches no matter how superficial. Besides animals darting through the undergrowth, the only source of noise came from a nearby stream that bubbled in an endless flow to his left. He tried to keep it there, and follow its course in the hope that it would eventually lead him back home.

 

But as the night wore on, the cold winds that brought the snowfalls cut him to the bone and exhaustion was not long in following. Still pitch dark; still stuck in the middle of nowhere and no real sense of where he was going, he eventually fell and failed to get back up again. Instead, all he could manage was to hoist himself into a sitting position and lean back against the nearest tree with his knees drawn up to his chest. He pulled up his hood and wrapped the cloak tight around his shoulders, curling up like a hedgehog under attack, and try not to cry like a baby.

 

It seemed to him as though an age had passed since his accident with Lady Stark. If he had stayed in Winterfell and taken whatever punishment she had in store for him, then he would be long in his feather bed by now, the whole sorry episode as good as forgotten. But like a foolish child, he had panicked and fled into a world he had previously seen only from the safety of a carriage window. The biting, inhospitable wilderness he stumbled into was as unforgiving as his ‘step-mother’. The realisation hit him like a punch in the gut that not only would be now have to answer for his actions to her, but also to his father. A man who could turn from doting father to the austere Lord of Winterfell, should any of his children incur his wroth. Only now, Jon couldn’t even begin to estimate the measure of the depth of his disgrace. The longer he was gone, the worse it would be and there was no end in sight.

 

Doubts crept in slowly, at first. They circled his thoughts like predators round the edge of a fire, just beyond the reach of the light, but he could sense them closing in. Emboldening them further, he tried to predict his father’s reaction when they met again. If they met again. Would he be relieved? Were they looking for him now? Had they even noticed? If it was Robb who was out at this hour, the whole of the North would be torn asunder until he was found. Then returned home to be nursed and smothered. But Robb was a different matter. Jon didn’t matter at all.

 

As for what awaited him upon his return, further punishment was inevitable. Unless Lord Eddard decided that this was the final straw; that Lady Stark had been right about Jon all along and he just wasn’t worth it any more. He would be turned away, and he would have nowhere else to turn but the Night’s Watch. All the little insecurities revealed themselves, opening like so many spring flowers to first rays of exposure. Once they were out, there was no putting them away again.

 

Slowly, he lifted his gaze overhead, to where the pin-prick stars glittered from the darkness. Wet eyes suddenly burning in the brisk winds, causing his vision to blur once more. Maester Luwin had taught him all the stars, but the lessons escaped him now; knowledge overpowered by panic. Maybe if he simply followed the largest, he would find his way back home? The only thing he was sure of was that if he remained where he was, he would be going nowhere.

 

Somewhere in the far distance, a lone wolf howled. A grating, mournful keening that slowly faded into nothing, before a second – even more distant – howl sounded in answer. The calls of a scattered pack trying to find their way back to one another. Being eaten alive by wild animals was one of the varied ways in which his night could possibly get that little bit worse, so he forced himself back to his feet.

 

The whole process was painful. Having rested some, it was as though every bruise and scrape had had a chance to blossom in his brief respite. Now that he was moving again, it all worked together to make his entire being ache and throb. Having not been fed since that morning, even his stomach joined the cacophony of discomfort. _Keep walking_ , he told himself, _just keep walking forwards._

 

He did the best he could; trudging through the endless night. Head bent against the gusting wind, exposed skin raw and cold. He didn’t stop until he heard the sound of hoof beats pounded through the wind. Even then he thought he was imagining it. He mistook the flickering lantern flames for low lying stars, at first. But when the faces of the riders loomed into view, he almost sank to his knees in relief. There was no Direwolf banner on show, no livery that he could make out. But at that moment, it was the least of his concerns.

 

* * *

 

“Ned, please, wait!”

 

Catelyn hitched up the hems of her skirts and dashed through the Great Hall of Winterfell. Ned’s back was retreating through the arched doorway that led out onto the yard, but he paused and looked back over her shoulder at the sound of her voice. She noted, with dismay, the way his brow tightened with irritation at the sight of her. But she did not let it deter her.

 

“Take me with you-“

 

“Cat, no.” he cut her off flatly. “Someone needs to stay with the girls.”

 

Sensing a brush-off, she stopped just short of him and fixed him with a keen-eyed look. “Isn’t that what Septa Mordane is for? And Bran is with Old Nan. Ned, I’ll just be left here pacing the boards while you and the boys are out leading the search.”

 

The unspoken blame was clear in his dark, grey eyes. Nothing was said; there was nothing he needed to say. She could read him like an open book. But he didn’t walk away, either. Over his shoulder, through the open doorway, she could see the castle forecourt was awash with flickering lantern lights as riders galloped through the gates and out into the wilderness beyond as more and more people joined the search, answering the tolling of the bells. Jory and Rodrik Cassel were marshalling them into groups, giving directions and allocating areas to look for the missing boy. Soon, it would be theirs and Ned’s turn to join in, riding out into the night together to comb the local area, leaving no stone unturned.

 

Eventually, Ned seemed to relent. He closed the small gap between them, placing his hands gently on her shoulders and kissing her forehead lightly. “It’s not your fault, Cat.”

 

He even managed to say it like he meant it. But when he drew away from her, she could see it in his eyes. The implied accusation; the undercurrent of judgements formed. Underneath it all, fear. A flicker of fear in his eyes, betrayed by the slight tremor of his hands as he held her. But he was a parent whose child could be lying dead in a ditch with a brigand’s knife in his back. Couldn’t he see that this was not what she wanted? She hadn’t arranged for this to happen. She wasn’t Cersei Lannister. But then, no one expected Cersei Lannister to raise King Robert’s army of bastard offspring as though they were her own, either. The mere suggestion of Robert’s illegitimate children, whelped the length and breadth of the seven kingdoms, would be enough to see someone’s head on a spike.

 

There was a strong draught coming from the open doorway; a brisk wind billowing stray snowflakes into the hall. Catelyn wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders before moving to escort her husband outside. She had already decided that she wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. If anything happened to Jon, the blame would be laid squarely at her feet for the rest of her days. She would have to carry that guilt like a millstone around her neck and endure the looks and whispers of every gossip she passed. Things were bad enough on that front as it was.

 

“Robb said Jon wants to join the Night’s Watch,” she said, closing the doors behind her. “You know how fond he is of Benjen. Maybe he has taken it into his head to go north to the Wall?”

 

It was a feeling reciprocated. Benjen had doted on Jon from the moment Ned returned with him from Dorne. The only thing that kept them apart for such long stretches of time was Benjen’s duties with the Watch. Ned, however, looked less than convinced. He merely shrugged.

  
“It’s worth a try.”

 

Anything was worth a try. So Catelyn raised an encouraging smile. “Well, let’s go then.”

 

Before Ned could protest, he swept past him and out into the main yard, where Hodor was working to saddle every horse they owned. The whole castle was alive with the sound of hollering men and stamping, restive horses as the search parties amassed. All the while, the bell continued its monotone tolling. Ned stopped abruptly before reaching the interior of the stables. He turned to face Catelyn with one arm barring the door, palm braced against the frame. She stopped just short of ploughing into him.

 

“Cat,” he whispered, low in her ear. “You really don’t have to come with us.”

 

Before she could answer, Robb came charging over to them. Breathless and hyper, he was rocking on his heels as he grappled for his father’s attention, one small hand reaching for the front of his furs. A curious mix of apprehension and annoyance crossed Ned’s face as he turned to the boy. “Robb! What is it? Is there news?”

 

Catelyn turned to her son, just as he quickly pulled himself into line, stung by his father’s waspish tone. Shrinking back slightly, he shook his head.

 

“No; everyone else has gone and we need to get moving, too,” he replied, flushed in the face.

 

Before Ned could rebuke him, Catelyn answered herself. “Get in the saddle, we’re coming now.”

 

Robb tried not to look surprised, but failed miserably. “You too?”

 

“Gods, Robb, will you do as your mother says?” Ned scolded, sending the boy scattering back into the yard.

 

Catelyn returned her gaze to Ned, imploringly. “Ned, it’s not his fault either. He’s as worried as you are.”

 

In response, he sighed heavily and sagged with defeat. The pressure always got to him in the end. The weight of responsibility; the doubts and self-defeating pessimism that gnawed at him. It wasn’t supposed to be him, doing this. He was never meant to be Lord of Winterfell or Warden of the North and his childhood’s training reflected that. The responsibility had been thrust upon him at the age of eighteen, when both his father and his elder brother were murdered by the Mad King. One roasted alive in his own armour over a pit of wildfire, while the son hanged himself trying to reach his sword to free old Lord Rickard Stark. It wouldn’t have been so bad for Ned if the father had lived, and been able to teach his second son the ropes. He would have had time to find his feet and prepare himself for the constant burden. But the Mad King and his fire fixation had seen to that.

 

Catelyn could see the same fearful doubts in his eyes now as she could all those long years ago. At times like these, it scarcely mattered about Jon. It was just him and her, together, trying to make the best of what fate had thrust upon them. And they were always better together.

 

Slowly, they closed in on one another, wrapping themselves in a close embrace for one final stolen moment. She could feel his hand resting gently on her head, fingers running through her lustrous auburn hair. Catelyn slipped her hands beneath his leather jerkin, resting at the small of his back. There they stayed for a long moment, until…

 

“Hodor!”

 

They both allowed themselves a subdued laugh as they broke apart, turning to find their gentle giant of a stable boy standing there with their horses. Ned thanked him, taking the reins of his own Destrier before handing over Catelyn’s more manageable palfrey. Once mounted, they rode together out into the yard, to where Robb, Theon, Jory and Rodrik were waiting for them impatiently. Scores of hunting hounds had been turned loose in the yard, and would be following them out, picking up on Jon’s scent as they went. Maester Luwin was waving one of Jon’s old shirts under their noses, making sure they knew which one they were tracking. Just as soon as they were done, the last of the searchers looked to each other before Rodrik led the way outside.

* * *

 

Once the hounds had been let slip on the main road, Ned watched them vanish into the undergrowth. He could still hear their laboured snuffling as their snouts ploughed through snow, the dank smell of their wet fur lingering in the frigid air. The torches of the outriders had faded to a nebulous haze of golden light as the outriders went door-to-door in their search for Jon. The others had spread out, too. Only Catelyn remained by his side, or near enough, as they galloped north. Maester Luwin remained in Winterfell, despatching Ravens to every noble house in the north, warning them of Jon’s disappearance and asking them to spare men for the search.

 

It had been half a day, already. But the half of the day where the sun began to decline, night setting in fast and making it unbearably easy for a child to lose his way. Especially a child who had been forbidden to set foot outside the castle walls alone. But it had had to be that way. If anyone knew the truth, and there were those who did, it made Ned sick to the stomach to think what could happen. These were thoughts he had to keep on pushing away; battening down before they could flip their lid. But the child could be taken. He could fall into enemy hands; even Wildlings had been seen this far south in recent years. If someone out there knew the truth about Jon’s birth…

 

But no one did. The story held, such as he had recounted it. Lyanna knew the truth of course, and dead girls told no tales. Howland Reed knew, but would sooner gauge out his own heart than betray the memory of the girl who saved him from a gang of bullying Knights. Finally, Ned knew. He bore the weight of the truth every waking moment, and lived with the threat of that truth bursting into the open, and all that it would entail, constantly. It endangered Jon, most of all. It endangered his other children and Cat, and he himself.

 

He couldn’t recall how many times he had bordered on the truth. When Cat was at her most pained; when she begged and begged him to tell her the truth, it was all there in his head. When she had berated him for betraying her while she prayed for his safe return from war, he had ached to tell her everything. But at what cost? It would be safer for Cat to resent him for something he had not done than it would be for her to be burdened with what really happened, all those years ago. It would be easier for him to bear her scorn, than it would be to break the promise he made to a dying girl. His dying sister, no less. But if Jon came to harm, he would have broken that promise anyway.

 

Ned couldn’t estimate how long they had been gone for. The star-strewn sky was as opaque as ever, with no hint of an approaching dawn, by the time they reached a frozen lake ten miles north of the Castle. He could see the pale moon’s spectral reflection on the icy surface, all scratched and distorted. But despite there being no water for the horses to drink, they dismounted to give them a rest anyway. Catelyn, Rodrik, Jory and the boys all doing the same at various points around the water’s edge. It was to Ser Rodrik and Jory that Ned turned at that moment, drawing them aside as Catelyn went to check on Theon and Robb.

 

“There’s not a hint of the boy anywhere,” Ned grumbled as he steered Rodrik away from the others. “Surely the dogs would have picked up a scent by now?”

 

In the lands around Winterfell it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Eddard knew it, but logic didn’t matter when the safety of one of his own was concerned. And after all these years, he was Jon’s father. He had stepped into the void and even bullied and cajoled his wife into doing the same, albeit with limited results.

 

“It’s still early days, My Lord,” replied Ser Rodrik. “He was on foot, he can’t have gone far.”

 

“He’s a sensible boy, too,” Jory chipped in, trying to sound reassuring. “By now, he’ll have holed up somewhere safe and off the road to wait for dawn.”

 

“But we can’t know that for sure!” Ned retorted. “He’s lost, hungry, alone and in more danger than he could even begin to comprehend.”

 

More danger than anyone could comprehend. If anyone knew; if anyone found out…. More thoughts that Ned had to forcibly shut down.

 

“He was well wrapped up when I saw him last,” said Ser Rodrik. “If that allays your fears.”

 

It didn’t.

 

“Nothing, and I mean nothing, can be allowed to happen to that boy,” Ned stammered in the cold, before faltering. “Understand me. Nothing at all.”

 

He could see the Uncle and Nephew exchanging a look of concern as Ned turned away. Then, he saw Cat looking back at him from a distance, her gaze of longing and searching, directed on him. Sometimes, he found himself wondering whether she already knew something was amiss with the story. But if she did, she never truly let on. She came up to meet him as he strode towards her through the thick snow. Greeting him with a stiff limbed embrace as they met.

 

“You’re doing everything you can, husband,” she said, soothingly. “There is no fault with you.”

 

She was probably wrong about that, he thought to himself.

 

* * *

 

The steel blade flashed in the pale moonlight. Jon’s heartbeat quickened as he jumped back a step and almost lost his footing. The men had dismounted and circled him slowly, swords and knives drawn as if he was a fat boar they had been hunting. Nor could he see their faces properly, causing his fear to swell. They circled him like cats pawing at a felled bird.

 

“Well, well, well…” one began.

 

“What have we here?” a second asked.

 

A brief pause, followed by a third. “A Wildling, south of the wall.”

 

Suddenly, Jon found his voice. “I’m not a Wildling! I’m Jon Snow; Ned Stark’s son!”

 

But his protestations were met with laughter.

 

“Yeah, and I’ve got Queen Cersei waiting for me in my bed back home-“

 

“Well, Bryn, you don’t want to keep the Lady waiting. Tie him up and get him on a pack horse.”

 

Jon tried to dodge out of the way, but the aforementioned Bryn was down on him before he could lift a foot from the ground. Another flash of steel and a brief glimpse of a shield bearing the sigil of a flayed man. Another lifeline thrown in his direction, Jon seized upon it.

 

“Your Roose Bolton’s men!” he declared, breathlessly as his wrists were bound tight. “You’re from the Dreadfort; the flayed man with the words “Our Knives are Sharp.” I know your house. Your Lord knows my father! I tell it true, I swear!”

 

It seemed to work, seeing as no Wildling would have that knowledge. Blades withdrew as swords were once more sheathed. Suddenly, the other man’s grip on his wrists slackened. But no one moved.

 

“And what would Lord Stark’s bastard be doing out here at this hour?” the man closest to Jon asked.

 

Rightly so, under the circumstances. But Jon couldn’t help but wonder what Lord Bolton’s men were doing scouting on Stark lands. That, however, was a question for another day.

 

“I was put outside, by Lady Stark, then I got lost and now I’m here,” he blurted out, hurriedly. “They’ll be looking for me, you know. My father will reward you if you take me straight home.”

 

Surely, Winterfell was closer than the Dreadfort. Although he didn’t know whether Lord Stark would reward them for his safe return. He might even pay them to take him to the Wall or back to the Dreadfort after what he had done to Lady Stark, before running away and causing all sorts of trouble. He could just make out their pale outlines as they huddled close together, all conferring in low voices that he couldn’t make out. It seemed to take age, while Jon remained tied at the wrists and under suspicion. But eventually, one pulled him over to a pack horse and hoisted him into the saddle.

 

“Right lads,” one called out in a gruff voice. “That’s it. Move off now. There’ll be gold in this one, so let’s get him there in one piece.”

 

Slowly, the small entourage moved off, heading straight ahead. Jon looked over his shoulder as best he could after being unceremoniously thrown on a horse. But he could swear they were going in the wrong direction.


	4. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, I really appreciate it.

They gave up at dawn. Overnight, the weather grew worse; snowstorms whipped up by ever strengthening winds that slowed their progress to a mere crawl. Jory Cassel had already been sent back to Winterfell with the boys, while Ser Rodrik remained with Lord and Lady Stark to continue the fruitless search. They had lost three of the hunting hounds after the animals slipped beneath the surface of a frozen pond. Lady Stark had heard the ice cracking, followed soon after by the gargled whining as the hounds drowned, the undercurrents dragging them helplessly beneath the ice. Even after sunrise, they could barely see beyond their horse’s noses. It was simply too dangerous for them to continue with the search, but Ned was still reluctant to admit defeat.

 

Their outward journey had seen them take many a diversion, through small holdings and villages and even one large town; each time stopping to take the search door to door. But even taking the direct route home again still took several hours of relentless galloping. It was high noon by the time they passed, exhausted and fit to drop, through the gates of Winterfell. Hodor was waiting by the stable doors, ready to take their horses. While Maester Luwin waited at the top of the castle steps, his hands buried in his sleeves and an expression of morose gravity on his face.

 

“Any news?” Ned called out to him, clearly fearing the worst.

 

The silence within the castle grounds seemed almost unnatural to Catelyn. This was the time of day when they would have been at their busiest. But now even the forge stood silent and empty as Mikken joined the others in planning and orchestrating the search for Jon. Everyone else, she guessed, was either out searching or resting after having just returned. Meanwhile, Maester Luwin carefully descended the steps to greet them.

 

“No news,” he replied, gravely. “Nothing at all.”

 

From the tail of her eye, she caught Ned’s reaction. A sagging defeat that made him suppress a groan. One trembling hand running through his wet hair as he tried to remain the right side of positive. She moved quickly to steady him, placing one hand on his arm and exerting gentle pressure for reassurance. When she spoke to him, she did so softly. “My Lord, come inside. We’re both aching and exhausted from the long night and we both need hot baths and a rest. We won’t find Jon while we’re like this.”

 

Again, there was that reluctance to give up. Torn between searching for his lost child, yet recognising the need to do exactly as she said. The agony of inactivity while entrusting others with a task as important as this. It was a lot for a man like Ned Stark; a doer not a talker. But common sense won out as Ned allowed Catelyn to lead him inside, with Maester Luwin trailing behind.

 

“All of Winter Town has been searched; Ravens despatched to Barrowtown, Karhold, the Dreadfort and Castle Cerwyn. Today, we’re concentrating the search on the Wolf’s Wood, My Lord. I promise you, everything that can be done, will be done,” Luwin explained. “Riders should reach Torrhen’s Square and Barrowtown by this afternoon. If nothing else, we can get more people for the search.”

 

“Karhold is leagues away from here,” Eddard pointed out. “No one could make it there alone, especially not a green boy.”

 

“But they could still help us, if Jon is not found,” Catelyn countered. “We need to keep the whole of the North informed.”

 

Ned’s jaw dropped, as though he was going to protest the point but then changed his mind. As they stepped through the doors of Winterfell together, the warmth closed over them and made their freezing hands and faces tingle unpleasantly. Even inside the castle was quiet and subdued. Day to day functions of such a large household barely ticking along as normal. Not in all her years had Catelyn seen it thus. But mercifully, one of the large, stone baths had already been filled for them. Within a half-hour of their arrival, they both sunk their aching bodies into the steaming hot water.

 

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Catelyn’s immediate concern about the boys making it home safe had been allayed by Maester Luwin before she got ready for her bath; both Robb and Theon had been left to sleep after their long night. While the girls, far too young and delicate to join in any such searches, were in the care of Septa Mordane. Only they and Bran were continuing their routine without interruption. So together, they reclined in each other’s arms, almost fully immersed in the deep water, willing their aches and pains to be soothed away. Even if it did nothing for Ned’s mental anguish.

 

Although Catelyn didn’t dare say as much, nor even hint at it, she had to admit it would have been difficult to survive those conditions alone. Wherever Jon was, he would not survive a second long night out in the open. Despite her darkening thoughts, she lay her face against Ned’s bare chest, breathing in steam from the bath water.

 

“He will be alright,” she whispered. “He’ll be found. No one would let a lone child pass and not offer help. He could easily have been taken in by someone who is, right now, sending a raven.”

 

Ned had been lying back with his head resting against the wall of the pool. His grey-blue eyes fixed on the nimbus of flickering candlelight that lined the back shelf of the chamber. Catelyn watched it too, finding it strangely soothing after such a long and frantic night.

 

“What if they don’t?” he asked.

 

“Why wouldn’t they?” she asked back. “Even if only in hope of a reward, they’ll make sure Jon is returned in one piece. They know how much your children mean to you, Ned.”

 

Before she had even finished, a strange mocking smile was playing at his lips. Surprised, Catelyn lifted her head to look at him properly, trying to read his expression further. But his arms were still wrapped around her body, under the water, where he tightened his grip. Not for the first time, she was aware of there being something left unsaid. Some gem of information to which she had never been made privy.

 

“At least if he’s ransomed off, he’s alive and not alone in the Wolf’s Wood,” he finally admitted. “But that child’s worth more than-“

 

Ned cut himself off, stifling a yawn. But once that was out of the way, he did not finish his sentence. Nor did Catelyn prompt him. He’d only grow stubborn and mulish if she tried to coax any more out of him. So, she changed her tactics.

 

“Given the circumstances of his leaving here,” she began, measuring her tone carefully. “Do you think he might have gone to find his birth mother? Someone could have told him something, or he might have picked up on some gossip and now decided to chase it down. You know how rash boys his age can be. And, Ned, he yearns to know.”

 

Ned groaned. “Cat! Not this again-“

 

“But it’s a possibility, Ned. You have to admit that!”

 

Ashara Dayne. Wylla. Two names that had haunted Catelyn for the entirety of her married life. Wylla, she barely knew anything about. Ashara Dayne, however, was a different matter. Ned had danced with her at the Tourney of Harrenhal. It was Brandon who had had to ask her for him, Ned had been so painfully shy as a young man. They all said her beauty was unparalleled; with hauntingly beautiful lilac eyes and long dark hair that swayed as she danced. Every time Catelyn found herself studying Jon for a long enough period of time, she would fix on his eyes, looking for traces of lilac, or a Dornish complexion. But he was all Stark; Ned writ small in every feasible way – even his temperament. All but that mass of raven dark curls. Did Ashara have that too? Did she have that hang-dog look in her eyes, as well? All scenarios and questions Catelyn had tortured herself with on more occasions than she cared to remember.  Ashara Dayne, the tragic beauty who plunged to her death so young; leaving a legacy of unanswered questions and a trail of deceit. Catelyn almost hated herself for hating her, but how could she not when she knew what she knew.

 

* * *

 

It was the sound of gushing water that knocked Jon out of his exhausted torpor. He glanced round sharply, from left to right, trying to take in his new surroundings. But all he could see was the fast flowing river and the thickets of dark trees. It was broad daylight; at least a full day since he had left Winterfell, and he didn’t recognise anything. He attempted to sooth himself with the thought that his erstwhile companions had merely taken another route home that was off the beaten track. He had never been allowed out on his own, so wouldn’t know any route but the most convenient.

 

However, that scant hope was dashed as they rounded a slow curve in the road and came to a long, narrow bridge to a castle he did recognise. It was the merlons and crenellations fashioned into sharp points, like dragon’s teeth, that gave it away. That, and the banners of the flayed man hanging from the curtain walls and above the drawbridge. The Dreadfort’s sinister geometry stood stark and foreboding against the opalescent skies, inducing a sickening panic in Jon as he struggled against the bonds at his wrists.

 

“That’s the Dreadfort!” he called out to the guard nearest to him. “I thought you said you were taking me back to Winterfell?”

 

For all his struggling, all Jon succeeded in doing was coming dangerously close to unseating himself from the pack horse he’d been thrown over. Meanwhile, the other guards merely glanced over at him and smirked.

 

“Why ever would be take you all the way to Winterfell?” the most senior asked. “Our Lord’s gold is just as good as your Lord Father’s.”

 

“And I have a feeling Lord Bolton will want to deal with this himself,” another added.

 

“I’d stop that if I were you,” said the youngest of them, nodding towards a still struggling Jon. “You’ll fall off in a minute and the Weeping Water will carry you off.”

 

Jon ceased immediately as his gaze wandered to the river, now swollen by the previous night’s snowfalls. As they passed under the drawbridge, the youngest of their company rode on ahead to alert Lord Bolton of their imminent arrival. Jon watched him vanish beyond the walls of the castle with the growing feeling of sickening dread. He had only ever seen Lord Bolton from a distance before. Everything else he knew about the man came from rumour and hearsay and generally involved leeches. He had a son not many years Robb’s senior, and another with the bastard’s name Snow – like him. But Jon had met neither of them before. In terms of striking terror into the hearts of the unwary, the Dreadfort was second only to Harrenhal; now he understood why. Tension seemed to ooze from the very brickwork.

 

But as he was untied and frog marched into the Great Hall, Jon was forced to his knees before a high dais upon which the Lord himself sat flanked by armed retainers. He didn’t dare look up or make a sound during his being presented, despite the biting pain in his wrists where the ties had been cut. He could feel open sores weeping there, and now his knees hurt where they had connected painfully with the cold, stone floor of the Hall. No one moved, nor made a sound, for what seemed an eternity.

 

“Let him up.”

 

A simple command spoken softly, but one obeyed immediately all the same. Unseen hands lifted Jon from under the arms, hoisting him back to his feet again. Every ache and scratch screaming in protest, but he kept himself in check as he looked up for the first time, into the face of Lord Roose Bolton. He had eyes and skin as grey as the fortress walls. He was almost indistinguishable from the background, but for the black of his hair.

 

“I’m sorry, my lord, I meant no discourtesy-“ Jon blurted out, only to be silenced by one raised hand.

 

“Bring him up here, then you may leave. I would talk to the boy alone.”

 

The guard named Bryn escorted Jon to the dais and seated him right beside Lord Bolton. To have a bastard seated so close to the person of a noble would turn Lady Stark’s hair grey, Jon was sure of it. But then, Bolton had a bastard of his own and no wife to hanker him morning, noon and night. For another long moment, Lord Bolton fixed him in another hard, shrewd look. Jon didn’t dare speak, let alone ask him what he thought he was looking at. But it made him nervous and on edge to held up to such intense scrutiny.

 

“The boy must be famished. Send to the kitchens for food and drink for him.”

 

He addressed one of the servants guarding a side door that led to the bowels of the castle. But even then, those cold grey eyes remained fixed on Jon.  

 

“Is that agreeable?”

 

Assuming that he was, at last, being addressed, Jon managed a jerky nod. “Thank you, my lord.”

 

He was famished. Had he been anywhere but the Dreadfort it was possible he might have attempted to eat the table, he was so hungry. Nor could he tear his gaze away from the Leech Lord, who seemed equally curious about him. One gloved hand was positioned carefully over his thin lips, under his nose as he seemed to note every detail of Jon. It was calculated and shrewd in a way that made him feel like he was being examined, tested and found wanting. Jon almost missed it, but just caught Lord Bolton’s other hand slipping a scrap of parchment into the pocket of his long surcoat.

 

Finally, Jon screwed up his courage and asked: “Will you send for my father?”

 

As soon as the words left his lips he worried he had been impertinent in rushing along a great Lord. But he had no desire to remain at the Dreadfort surrounded by stony-faced flayers.   Old Nan, in her eternal wisdom, once told them the Boltons still kept torture chambers and a special room where the flayed skins of their enemies lined the walls like grotesque tapestries.

 

“No,” he replied, causing Jon’s stomach to clench. Sensing the boy’s reaction, Bolton hastily added: “I will arrange for you to be transported back to Winterfell. There’s no sense in dragging Lord Stark all the way out here.”

 

Relief washed over Jon in a wave. “Thank you, My Lord. I know he’ll be worried and angry by now.”

 

A smile twitched the lord’s lips. “We can’t have that now, can we?” The question was rhetorical. “Do you know, my late wife’s sister was a very dear friend of your father’s.”

 

Jon racked his brains, trying to remember whether Maester Luwin, or anyone else, had mentioned Bolton’s late wife. If they had, it escaped him now. But Bolton smiled and chuckled knowingly.

  
“Of course, you won’t have heard of Bethany; there’s no feasible reason why you should,” he ceded. “And naturally, our family’s share many connections going back a long, long time.”

 

Jon really did not know what to do with this information. At a loss for how to react, he settle for ‘politely interested’. “Oh,” he finally replied. “That’s nice.”

 

“Yes, your father had just returned from Dorne, if I remember rightly,” he added, expounding on the connection. “He brought back a horse, but not a body. I believe it’s caused some problem or other. You know what women can be like!”

 

Jon would rather a horse than a body, but he also preferred having the full story before reaching a conclusion. All this cryptic, semi-information was making him even more uncomfortable. But he was spared having to contribute further by the arrival of a hot meal and mead. Almost immediately, Bolton was on his feet.

 

“You can eat in peace, Jon Snow,” he announced. “If you excuse me, I’ll have lodgings prepared for you and arrange for your delivery on the morrow.”

 

Jon watched him leaving, relieved that the unexpected test was over. He disliked people openly staring at him and Bolton had a real talent for it. However much he told himself he was finally safe, it seemed hollow. Especially behind the impenetrable walls of the Dreadfort. Feelings he couldn’t even set aside as he got started on the meal he so desperately needed. A meal he didn’t even get the chance to finish before a Maester appeared and informed him his lodgings were ready.

 

“Bring it with you, child,” he said, nodding to the plate. “It’s not far.”

 

In no position to argue, Jon followed with the remains of the stew and bread balanced on one arm and the mead in the other hand. Through the back of the hall, down a gallery that led to a tower staircase. He followed up the steep steps, all the way up and up until they reached a level that must have been close to the top. There, the Maester held a door open, gesturing for Jon to go inside. He did so, setting his things down on the nearby writing desk. The only other furniture in the room was a narrow cot bed.   
  
“How long must I stay here?” he asked. An overnight stay was not what he had in mind.

 

“That I cannot say,” the Maester replied, closing the door firmly. A second later, a lock slid into place, trapping Jon inside.

 

* * *

 

Ned woke up to a continued absence of news late in the evening. Cat slept on, but not for much longer before she too began to stir. But it was already dark outside; the weather continuing to be foul. If he looked down from the window, he could see the search parties changing over. Those just returning swapping with those just riding out. He knew they wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer.

 

Before Cat woke up fully, he dressed himself properly and sat back down on their bed. Few candles were lit in the room, but the fire blazed in the hearth. It’s even glow reached every corner in the room, making shadows of the bulky furniture that was scattered haphazardly about the place. It was large, but intimate. Warm, but not uncomfortably hot, even with the naturally hot water being piped through the walls from the subterranean hot springs.

 

He moved from the bed to stand before the open fire. Once there, he gazed into the lapping flames and considered the direness of their situation. If Jon was still out in the open, he would be dead. If he was alive, he was being sheltered. If he was being sheltered, they would have heard something by now. Jon simply couldn’t have gone far by himself. He didn’t have so much as a horse. Then the dangers… there was a reason why that boy was had been strictly forbidden to set foot outside the walls of Winterfell without a chaperone. No one but him knew the dangers. The more he covered up what really happened, the more curiosity about it grew. He had already failed on that level. What did it matter if he failed on one more level?

 

In a fit of indecision, he collapsed into a nearby chair and sent up many a silent prayer to the Old Gods. Not one of them answered. But he did know that the time had come for someone else to share the burden. Someone else had to understand why Jon had to be found, dead or alive, as a matter of urgency. Ned looked again towards Catelyn, who turned over and mumbled as she stirred in her slackening sleep. He got up and left the room. Striding through the passageways and out through the main doors, he set off towards the Godswood, still swathed in mists and cold, frigid air. He didn’t stop until he reached the weirwood tree and he knelt before the sap-weeping face carved in the trunk. Only here could he find any semblance of the serenity he craved.

 

The noise of the yards and the keep were lessening now, making the sacred space almost silent. The way he preferred it, in times of crisis. Here, he breathed more easily and the fog in his head slowly cleared. It may not have revealed the path he should take, but it made it easier for him to find it in the first place. Although he couldn’t guess at how long he had been there, he finally came to the conclusion he had been skirting around for years now. No more dithering; no more delays. Desperate times called once more for desperate measures. Catelyn had to be told; he needed to her steady heart and level headed wisdom like never before. She was the only one he could trust, but had not trusted her with this yet and it had now become untenable. It might even have come too late.

 

But even as he returned to the Castle, he passed the crypts and heard Lyanna’s pleading voice all over again. All he could do was mutter an apology she would never hear and push her memory out of his mind. He could no longer betray his wife to hold true a memory of a long dead sister.

 

Cat was fully awake and dressed again by the time he returned. She sprang to her feet, her expression knitted with worry, ready to rush up to him. He embraced her warmly when they did meet, but silenced her before she could say anything. “Cat, we need to talk,” he said. “It’s time you knew the truth.”

 

* * *

 

 


	5. A Host of Low Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed this, it's appreciated. This story is now even with the cross-posted story on the other fanfic site, so updates on it will come every week or so from now on.

Ned didn’t bother trying to disguise the trembling in his hands as he decanted wine into two silver cups. He was standing at the cabinet, facing the window that overlooked the Glass Garden but he couldn’t see out. All he was aware of was Catelyn’s inquisitive gaze boring into his back as he prepared the stiff drinks he knew they would both be needing. Pausing for breath, for a snatched moment to gather his thoughts, he gripped both goblets before turning to face the wife he had lied to for all their married life.

 

Catelyn was perched on the end of their bed, eyes tracking his every move. Too on edge to relax or even attempt small talk, she sat up straight and rigid; uttering an almost inaudible ‘thanks’ as she took her drink. Already he was thinking up reasons to stall, rather than concentrating on finding the right place to begin his story. When he sat beside her, so close their thighs were touching, he double checked that the windows were closed; the door was closed or no one was hiding under the bed or in the closets. Anything to delay the moment when he metaphorically opened his heart and ran the risk of her physically doing the same to him.

 

All the while, a stilted silence reigned between them. Catelyn attempted to end it by pointedly clearing her throat before sipping at her wine; Ned merely glanced at her sidelong in some attempt to gage her feelings. Tension thickening between them; becoming almost palpable as Ned struggled to locate his tongue. Eventually, it was Catelyn herself who broke the spell.

 

“I can feel you shaking, Ned. Just tell me what it is because your fear is making me even more afraid and, right now, my nerves can’t take anymore.”

 

That was definitely his cue to talk. But to push him over the edge, he thought once more of Jon, alone and in danger in the wilderness. Now or never.

 

“You weren’t at the Tourney of Harrenhal, were you?” he asked. Seconds later, her hair brushed against him as she shook her head. “We all went, apart from our father. Brandon, myself, Lyanna and Benjen. Howland Reed came with us. Everyone was there.”

 

“I’ve heard all about it,” Catelyn added. “Lord Whent had it back then, didn’t he? He wanted to show off his wealth, power and beautiful daughters.”

 

That was about the gist of it. It was one vast, elaborate display of riches and power. But Ned recalled every tiny detail as clearly as a vivid, lucid dream. The last days of an idyllic childhood that now felt part of someone else’s life. He even remembered the cut of the lady’s gowns; the vibrancy of the banners and the fabrics, and the way Ashara Dayne looked at him through beautiful lilac eyes. He could recall, with acute the precision, the way he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole as Brandon spoke to Ashara on his behalf, asking her to dance with him. His face still burned as he recalled his older brother whispering in her ear before pointing back at him, and the beautiful Ashara meeting his gaze. Then seeing the nod of her elegant head. Followed by the dance. Him dancing with her. Then Lyanna rescuing Howland Reed from bullying Knights. Lord Whent’s overrated daughters. Names and ghosts that haunted him still: Ashara and her brother, Arthur; Lyanna and Brandon and so many others. It made his heart ache to think of all the people who were there, but were with them no longer.

 

“Prince Rhaegar was there, along with the Mad King himself,” said Ned. “I’ve heard it said that Aerys was only there because one of his advisors told him the Tournament was a cover for a number of high lords plotting to usurp him and place Rhaegar on the throne. Could even be true, for all I know. Nothing was as it seemed, back then. In any case, fate played out rather differently for us all, in the end.”

 

Eddard paused there, momentarily carried away on the undertow of his own memories. During his silence, Catelyn’s hand found his and gave a gentle squeeze. Looking back on it now, he could see that he had been deeply infatuated with Ashara Dayne, but it wasn’t the same thing as being in love. Love was what he had Cat had cultivated; it was the reason why he could not carry on lying to her.

 

“I’ve told you before how Rhaegar crowned our Lyanna as Queen of Love and Beauty,” he resumed the story. “In front of his wife, Princess Elia. Everyone fell silent. It was shameful, but Lyanna could hardly refuse.”

 

“Of course she couldn’t,” Cat agreed. “And given what happened next, I doubt any ill feeling lingers for Lyanna, nor stain on her character.”

 

Ned couldn’t help but raise a pained smile as he drained the remainder of his wine. “That’s just it, Cat. It was sometime after the tourney that Lyanna was taken by Rhaegar. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. It was like she just vanished…”

 

Another natural pause came along, during which Catelyn got up to refill their goblets. He could tell, by looking at her, that she was bearing with his long, meandering story out of patience. But he recognised that she could not tell where it was all leading. Meaning, he could still back out. Pretend that he was growing sentimental. But in his heart of hearts, he knew he had come too far for that. When Cat sat down with their refills, she kissed the top of his head and wrapped her free arm around his waist. He needed her proximity, now more than ever.

 

“You do not have to talk about Lyanna if it is too painful, Ned. I know how much she meant to you.”

 

“No, I must,” he insisted. “When we found out that she had been abducted, you know Brandon and my father travelled straight to King’s Landing to demand her return. You know what happened next.”

 

“Of course,” Catelyn replied, no doubt filled with memories of her deceased fiancée. Brandon Stark, who was meant to be her husband. He had already defended her honour once. “Your father burned, while your brother hanged. Robert raising his army to defend his Lady Lyanna. The Trident and the death of Prince Rhaegar. Gods, Ned, they say King Robert mourns her still. I wish I had known her.”

 

“I don’t believe Robert knew her, either,” he replied, slowly inching closer to the truth. “He already had one illegitimate daughter back at the Vale. Maya Stone. Lyanna found out and, well, reacted much like yourself, forgive my say so.”

 

Catelyn blushed. “I can understand why.”

 

“Be that as it may, Cat, he didn’t know her as well as he makes out. They were not a good match. Not our wilful, spirited Lyanna,” he reminisced. “When I found out that Rhaegar had taken her to his hideaway in Dorne, I went straight down there to rescue her, with Howland Reed and a few others. Ser Willam Dustin was there, too. He had just married Lady Barbrey, from Barrowtown and I think you know what happened there. He was killed, but I buried him there and returned the horse to his wife. She’s hated me ever since and I can’t say I blame her. Gods, what was I thinking?”

 

Catelyn increased the pressure of her arm round his waist as she kissed his rough cheek. “You barely knew what you were doing, Ned. You must have been mad with grief. But forgive me, I don’t see where Jon ties in to this. Whoever she was must have birthed him by this point in time yet you’ve still told me nothing.”

 

Now he had reached the point of no return. He remembered once more the promise he made, the way the fear left Lyanna’s eyes the moment he sealed his fate and made that solemn vow. He remembered praying and praying to his old Gods that Catelyn would find it in herself to forgive him. The smell of Lyanna’s blood, mixed with the scent of blue winter roses. ‘Promise me, Ned…” her voice echoed down the years. Now he silently prayed for forgiveness again, but from the ghost of his sister.

 

“The Tower of Joy was not heavily guarded, Cat. That’s what surprised me most. But there was a skirmish and lives were lost. By the time I got to Lyanna, she was dying. She was weak, her blood was everywhere. I only knew where she was because I’d heard her screams during the skirmish.”

 

“I thought she died of a fever?” Cat interjected, brow creased with confusion.

 

The Rubicon had been reached, and it was just a few more steps to finally cross it. Now he had to break a vow to a ghost to keep the trust of his living wife. His lip trembled with suppressed emotion as the long buried truth burrowed its way to the surface.

 

“She did, Cat. Childbed fever.”

 

At first, Cat’s eyes widened in shock but the implications hadn’t sunk in. “What happened to the-“ she began, but cut herself off as the truth finally dawned. Ned’s heartbeat hammered as he waited for the penny to drop. Her jaw dropped. “Jon Snow,” she whispered so low he could barely hear it.

 

Ned turned away and buried his face in his hands as the second dreadful truth hit home. “On her dying breath; I vowed to raise that child as my own.”

 

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” she added, seemingly without having heard Ned. “He is Jon’s…”

 

He could tell she was speaking, and that she understood, that the truth was finally out. But he could also tell the shock was too great for the full weight of it to sink in at once.

 

“Father,” he finished the broken sentence for her.

 

The moment seemed to freeze, keeping them both in suspended animation. Whenever he imagined this moment, or rehearsed it in his head, he envisioned many things. Anger, recrimination, tears or histrionics. But never silence. Not this terrible, shocked silence that swelled between them now. Frankly, he would have preferred her to scratch his eyes out than keep him hanging in mid-air like this, with the sheer drop below him. All the while, he could not bring himself to look at her. He slumped forward with his face completely buried in his hands as the weight of years of lies and subterfuge suddenly imploded, leaving only a terrible void. When she did react, her arms released him and she got to her feet. He listened to the sound of her footsteps receding as she strode purposefully out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

Sleep eluded Lord Bolton that night. During his marriage to Bethany, he had heard her sister carping about the evils of Eddard Stark more times than he cared to remember. That strange silent wife of his, who never made a sound in bed. He thought it a pity her sister didn’t follow the same principle in all forms of society. For Bethany’s sake, he endured Barbrey’s tirades against Lord Stark, putting it down to grief. Not just for Ser Willam, but for Brandon Stark, also. He was the man unto whom Barbrey had gifted her maidenhead. Not only had Ned Stark robbed her of her husband, but Lady Stark had stolen the hand of her first intended husband. For she insisted that Brandon had no intention of ever marrying Catelyn Tully, as she was back then. It was a double-pronged enmity that neatly encompassed one happily married couple. Jealousy, or so he thought. As for her story about Lyanna Stark absconding with the crown prince, he put that down to being nothing more than another opportunity to slander the Starks. But, naturally, when Jon Snow – the rumoured fruit of this illicit union - himself wandered into his very halls, opportunity had come a-knocking. The chance to get the story confirmed was too good to pass up.

 

From what Roose had seen of the boy, he was every inch Ned Stark writ small. But he had never met Rhaegar. If there was some mark of the Targaryen that he had missed, he knew Barbrey would pick up on it immediately. Nor did she waste any time in responding to his invitation. She must have left Barrowtown as soon as the Dreadfort raven arrived. Come the dawn, she was sweeping into his halls with a swish of voluminous black skirts. Her greying brown hair swept up elegantly and not so much as a stumble in her straight-backed, slender frame. She was a fine looking woman still, leaving him to wonder on a regular basis why she had not remarried. Willam died years ago, but she dressed as though she had been widowed just last week.

 

“Lady Dustin,” he greeted her. “I hadn’t been expected you for some time.”

 

She must have found a way to convert her animus for the Starks into some sort of super-charged horse feed. He almost asked her for the recipe.

 

“Oh, I didn’t want to miss this,” she replied, heels ringing against the flagstones as she swooped down on him. “Have you really got the boy here?”

 

They kissed each other on both cheeks by way of familiar greeting.

 

“He’s not going anywhere; last I checked he was fast asleep,” he pointed out. “Where is your escort? I will have my servants prepare lodgings for them in the guest house.”

 

Her wrinkled lips turned upwards in a smile. This close up, he could smell her heavy musk and see that she had taken to powdering her bust to make her bosom appear deeper and fuller.

 

“I took the liberty myself,” she confessed, unsurprisingly to him. “Take me to see him. I’ve told you what I think, now here’s the proof. I knew Lyanna Stark, Lord Bolton, she was my friend. And do you seriously think that Ned Stark, the man who wears his honour like a penitent’s shirt, would sire a bastard so soon after his marriage? No. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, My Lord. Something happened; something Ned Stark doesn’t want the world to know and I’ve been saying it for years…”

 

She really had been saying it for years. To him and Bethany, at any rate. He could almost mouth the words to her tirades as though they were a musician’s greatest hits. The rest of it washed over him as he escorted the Lady up the south facing turret where the boy had been lodged. So exhausted from his travels he had barely had the strength to eat before falling unconscious. Roose was thankful for that, at least.

 

“It’s early, my lady,” he pointed out, gently. “Do you not want to get some rest before starting this?”

 

They paused outside the bolted door, looking to one another for a moment. “Oh I couldn’t possibly,” she responded, tartly. “No. I’ve waited a long time for this. I bet he’s Rhaegar Targaryen to the core.”

 

At that, Roose hesitated, almost grimacing. “Well, not quite. But anyway, see for yourself.”

 

* * *

 

Jon didn’t want to wake up. He was sleeping, it was warm and he was rolling through his dreams like a storm tossed ocean. But whatever had a hold of his face wasn’t letting go. He could feel their nails digging in to his cheeks, squeezing his face so hard it stung and pushed his lips into a forced pout, his face being forcibly turned from side to side. His eyelids snapped open to find a strange woman’s face just inches from his own. Her dark eyes were narrowed, peering at him intently. He couldn’t back away, he couldn’t even protest further than a muted gargle as the strange lady refused to let go. Her face filled his vision, but it was a man who broke the silence.

 

“Er, I think you’re hurting him.”

 

The woman made no reply, but she at least let go of his face. Once more, he was able to breathe properly. Too bewildered to even be afraid, Jon failed to react for several seconds even after she suddenly tore away his bedding. She revealed him lying there in nothing but the nightshirt he had been provided with. Self-consciously, he tugged at the frayed hems of the garment, covering as much of himself as possible. As he rapidly came too, remembered where he was and why, a discomfiting fear slowly percolated through his belly, spreading out to the rest of him. His brow creased in consternation as he struggled to think of some way to break the deadlock he and the woman were in.

 

“Wh-where’s my father?” he stammered, now able to see past her to Lord Bolton.

 

Bolton’s expression was unreadable as he glanced from the Lady to Jon and back again. “Jon, this Lady is a friend of your father’s. She just wanted to meet you. Lord Stark will be here in the morning to collect you.”

 

“This isn’t him,” the Lady interjected after having looked the length of his thin body. “I don’t know why this boy lied about being Jon Snow, but he cannot possibly be him.”

 

Feeling overly exposed, Jon tried to back away by scuttling into the farthest corner of the bed. All the while, he kept the increasingly bizarre woman in his line of vision.

 

“But I am Jon Snow,” he protested, feebly. “I’m Lord Stark’s son; I’m not lying!”

 

When Jon did glance over at Lord Bolton, he could see he had his head in his hands, sighing heavily. “He is Jon Snow, Lady Dustin. I’ve met him before at Winterfell. His father sent ravens to us all as soon as he went missing.”

 

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. But the relief was short lived as he noticed the woman still staring at him; scrutinising every part of his face as though searching for buried treasure.   
  
“Brandon…” she whispered.

 

“That’s my brother,” he supplied, trying to be helpful.

 

But the woman made no response. Nothing except for slowly backing away with a rustle of her full black skirts sweeping the floorboards. But she still fixed him with a curious, quizzical look. Jon didn’t even notice Lord Bolton covering him again and encouraging him to go back to sleep with a promise of breakfast as soon as he woke again. But Jon knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep after that. Once the door was closed and locked again, he could just make out the woman’s voice: “I need more time, Roose. I need to think more about this.” If Lord Bolton made any reply, Jon could not hear it over the fearful beating of his own heart.

 

* * *

 

Catelyn watched the breaking dawn without really seeing the slender rays of sun peeking over the distant woods. Rather, she looked out over the walls of Winterfell from the top of the north tower, out towards the Wolf’s Wood and the indistinguishable treetops forming a patchy green carpet rolling into the distance. With the window of the rotunda open, letting in fresh clean air in an effort to clear her head, she went through it all again. When she first left Ned, she had headed toward the sept, thinking to pray for guidance. But what she needed more was another strong drink and a bar tender was not among the Seven. So she arrived here, alone and in no danger of interruptions. Where she could think.

 

But the plethora of emotions all vying for dominance within her now pulled her this way and that. A number of distant voices in her head offered their own interpretations, persuasions and reasoning as she tried to make sense of it. There was always a ‘but’ at the end. Ned had lied to her … but! He had made a solemn vow to his dying sister. She would have done the same for Lysa or Edmure … but! There was nothing she kept from Ned, certainly not the progeny of a deposed Prince. She would do anything to protect the innocent … but!... Every time she thought she had a moral absolute, the buts would butt in once more and throw her own morality back in her face.

 

Becoming overwhelmed once more, she stumbled backwards into a nearby chair with the wine bottle she had procured clutched in her hands. Leaning back against the headrest, she steadied herself once more and closed her eyes. Shut it out, she thought to herself, just shut it out for one minute.

 

Even at the height of her anger, she kept returning to one key point. At the heart of this mess lay just one innocent party who had no control over anything: Jon Snow. No one asked him whether he wished to be born, or consulted with him about who he should be born to and where. His was nothing more than the unlucky seed that taken root at the wrong moment and between the wrong people. Yet he would be the one to pay the price. He would bear the taint of the father and the guilt of the mother for the rest of his days. The Baratheons and Lannisters would want him dead for the blood in his veins. Others would want to use him as a pawn in their own personal power games. Even if he himself did nothing wrong at all and lived a quiet life, in a quiet little house here in the North, it would do nothing to stop others more ambitious than himself from using him in their power grabs. King Robert would want the boy’s head on a spike purely as a pre-emptive strike to prevent such plotting.

 

From that perspective, she could understand why Ned did what he did. Would she have had the strength to do the same? Men had affairs all the time, especially in times of war when they never did know whether they would live to see another sunrise. It was one outwardly harmless lie that covered a host of low and dangerous truths. Not even she, Catelyn, had imagined this and she lived with these people day in and day out. Not once had she suspected the enormity of the truth, or had she simply been blinded to the truth by her own green-eyed envy?

 

Well, at least she could stop being angry at Ned for having cheated on her. That realisation almost made her laugh a bitter laugh. No, he had not cheated on her. But he had still lied; still led her on a merry dance as her heart broke and looked on as she tied herself in knots over the identity of the mystery woman. All for the sake of a woman who had run off with the son of the man who would go on to murder her brother and father; not to mention Robert’s Rebellion and all who had perished, including lover-boy’s wife and children. She could picture it in her head: Gregore Clegane cleaving those innocent babes in two, before savaging Princess Elia. All as part of a war fought because her husband had eloped with another woman. Ned owed Lyanna Stark nothing. Nor would Catelyn allow her marriage to be their last victim.

 

She strode out of the room she had fled to, back to their own chambers. There she found Ned in much the same state she had left him: hunched and broken; guilt ridden. His head snapped up as soon as the door opened, their eyes meeting where she could read the silent pleading in his.  

 

“She went of her own volition, didn’t she?” asked Catelyn.

 

Eddard nodded. “Robert just jumped to conclusions and I … I couldn’t believe she would …”

 

His words trailed off. Living the lie was easier than facing up to the truth of his sainted sister.

 

“She could never have known what would happen next, I suppose,” she conceded, magnanimously. "But don’t you dare beat yourself up over the vow you think you have broken. You owe her nothing, Ned. This Kingdom has bled enough for her and the Targaryens already.”

 

She hadn’t even entered the room properly. She leaned her back against the closed door and fixed her gaze on him. But he turned away, still with his face buried in his hands. When he did turn to face her again, she could see the frigid tears standing in his eyes.

 

“Do you forgive me, Cat?”

 

“Forgive is much too big a word for what I’m feeling right now,” she replied with cutting honesty. “All I know is, that if we’re to survive this, and save the one truly innocent victim in all this, we need to remain united and strong.”

 

The corners of Ned’s mouth twitched into something like a smile. “You mean, you’re doing this for Jon’s sake?”

 

She almost laughed herself. “I suppose I am.”


	6. A Place of Greater Safety

"He's sleeping."

Lady Dustin turned from the tapestry she had been studying and met Lord Bolton's gaze across the hall. Giving her skirts a shake to clear the hems of her feet, she crossed the room to join him at the high table, up on the dais. The squires and servants who normally slept in the hall had been banished to the cellars and guest houses to grant them privacy as they talked things over. Not that Lord Bolton felt there was much left to discuss. The remains of their light breakfast grew cold and stale on the silver platters, but the small ale remained drinkable. Barbrey took the liberty of topping up both of their goblets.

"Good, I'm glad," she replied, at length. "The child needs his rest. Tell me, what is his temperament like? Is he sullen?"

Roose lifted the newly refilled goblet to his lips, but paused there. "He's a thirteen year old boy," he pointed out, not quite sure whether Jon was even that old. "Of course he's sullen. Awkward and clumsy too, I'll wager." He stopped to take an overdue sip of ale. "Admit it, he's not what you expected."

Having her inner thoughts read back to her like that grated on her nerves. But she kept her expression calm and composed. "I didn't expect it to be easy. Proving my suspicions, I mean. But I know Lyanna Stark left with Rhaegar Targaryen of her own free will. Perfectly healthy sixteen year old girls don't just drop down dead, either. Now I'll see your wager on a child's sullenness, and raise you Ned Stark's honour not stretching far enough to cover a few lies for his dear sister."

A natural pause opened in the conversation, pulling them into a contemplative silence. During which, Lady Barbrey could tell Lord Bolton was once more weighing up all that she had said. She could tell by the way he looked right through her with his flinty, grey eyes. He was a chilly article even at the best of times, but always more so when he was deep in thought over his next strategic step. He placed his goblet back on the table, running the tip of his index finger idly round the rim while he continued to think.

"You said the name 'Brandon' while inspecting the boy," he reminded Barbrey, turning his gaze towards her. "He thought you meant his brother – the littlest Stark boy. But you and I both know better. You meant Lord Eddard's late, lamented elder brother."

Barbrey couldn't deny what she had said, nor could she avoid the path Roose was leading her down. So she rushed up to meet it head on. "He's not Brandon's boy, either. Brandon would not have betrayed me."

"He was betrothed to Catelyn Tully," Roose pointed out, one brow raised. "Don't you think-"

"No!" she retorted, feeling her face flush with temper. "He had no intention of marrying Catelyn Tully. If things had been different; if Lyanna had not run off with that Targaryen…"

Her words trailed off as recollections of those violent days trickled back into her mind. After she had gifted her maidenhead to Brandon, while he was still fostered at Barrowton, her father had talked of her betrothal to Eddard Stark. If it hadn't been for Brandon, she wouldn't have minded. But Catelyn Tully managed to get in the way of both matches, and she had married Ser Willam Dustin instead. Only for Eddard Stark to drag him off to war and fail to bring him back again. Oh, but she had her husband's horse returned to her. The memory of seeing Ned Stark standing there in her courtyard, holding that red beast by the bridle was one that made the bile rise into her throat. When Roose's voice cut through her thoughts, she had almost forgotten he was there.

"I understand that there's … history … between yourself and the Starks," he was saying, cautious as a barefoot child treading through nettles. "But would it not be advisable to return the boy to Lord Eddard and continue this through another … line of investigation, perhaps?"

"You mean you want me to admit defeat?" she replied, through pursed lips.

"That's not what I said," he quickly clarified. "The boy can't tell you himself who his real parents are and you're getting nowhere by simply gawping at him. What I mean is, hedge your bets. Let me send for the Starks to collect him – I can easily explain the delay – and we can keep in mind all you have said." Once more, he fell into silence to allow her the time to process what he was actually saying. "I'm not saying I don't believe you. All I'm saying is that, right now, we can't prove anything. Yet."

The 'yet' he tacked on at the end was meant to convince her that he hadn't lost faith in her. Her theory was a possibility that could be stored away for later use, should anything else come up. But for now, they had reached a dead end and Bolton was trying to make her see that. In the end, Barbrey nodded but couldn't quite bring herself to say the words aloud. Instead, she deflected. "It's been a long night. Is there a guest room available for me?"

"Of course there is," he replied, visibly relieved. "Just so you know, I've already sent a Raven to Winterfell."

Lady Barbrey's throat constricted, almost choking her. "Very well," she replied, stiffly.

With that, a servant was summoned to escort her to her chambers. As she left the hall, she glanced back at Roose Bolton over her shoulder, but he was already on his way out.

* * *

They had overslept again. Catelyn knew Eddard would be furious with himself for having done so, despite the fact that she agreed with Maester Luwin: they needed to be here at Winterfell in case of any news. Let their bannermen and retainers lead the search; they knew the terrain as well as any of them. But their early morning talk had drained them both of energy. 'Talk' wasn't even the word for it. It was more like a bearing of souls followed by an expunging of years of deceit and living other people's lies. Even dead people's lies.

Now, it was the morning after the night before, and Catelyn still felt barely equal to the task of taking all that in. She turned her head on the pillow, looking towards the spot where Ned slept on next to her. After a moment of listening to his deep, steady breaths, she found herself wondering how he had the strength to do what he did, alone, for so many years. To carry a burden so large, for the love of his Sister and her orphaned child; was a remarkable thing. Cautiously, she placed one hand against the side of his face, waking him gently.

"Ned," she whispered, as he began to stir. "Ned, it's late, my love."

His eyelids fluttered open, followed close after by the bed sheets rustling as he rolled over. Outside their windows, the sun was already high in the sky. Strong rays of it spilled through the gaps in the shutters, making Ned wince as he tried to wake up fully. Once he did, and his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he looked back at Catelyn frowning, like she wasn't meant to be there.

"You're still here?" he asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

Catelyn smiled and nodded. "Where else would I be?"

"I thought you would still be angry with me."

"How could I be angry with you?" she answered with another question. "Ned, I so wish you had told me the truth right from the start. If I had known, I would have come up with a way to somehow pass Jon off as one of my own. I don't know how, but we would have found a way. I could've gotten with child and taken a long holiday to Skagos, or something! You should never have had to carry that burden all by yourself. If I'm mad at you for anything, it's doing all this alone."

"We hardly knew each other back then," he pointed out. "I couldn't have put you in that kind of danger. The way I saw it: I made the choice, so I had to be the one to bear the consequences."

She had run once more into that peculiar Stark honour. An honour so convoluted, he tied himself in knots over it. But they had spent enough time raking over the ashes of their own history. Jon remained missing, feared dead. Getting him back and under their protection once more remained top of both their priorities. Already, the question of what to tell him had cropped up in Catelyn's thoughts, with her gut instinct telling her 'nothing' lest he should become afraid. She knew she was also living in a fool's paradise. But that was for after they had him back safely. If they got him back safely. To that end, she got out of bed and began dressing herself.

"What next?" she asked, pulling her underskirts on over her head. "Do you think the searchers would have reached Karhold yet?"

If Jon was heading for the Wall and his Uncle Benjen, he would have no choice but to pass through Lord Rickard Karstark's lands. Ned looked doubtful.

"Karhold's at least a week's ride away," he replied, also rolling out of bed. "Jon would never make it far on foot and alone."

Although she tried to think of some logical way to counter that and set his mind at ease, she knew she could not. The child would freeze long before reaching the far North, never mind the Wall itself. Just as they finished dressing, however, the frantic knocking on the chamber door alarmed them both. They glanced at each other, hearts pounding in throats, for a split second before Catelyn recovered her wits and dashed to answer it. She opened the door to find Maester Luwin waving a slip of parchment in her face, looking immensely relieved.

"A raven from the Dreadfort," he declared, happily. "Jon is safe and well; being looked after by Lord Bolton's staff."

Catelyn spun round towards Ned, making sure he heard. He swooped down on them both, wide-eyed and hardly daring to breathe. "Is that from Lord Bolton himself?"

"It is, My Lord," Luwin confirmed. "I'll prepare a carriage to take you there straight away."

Breathless with relief, Ned sagged back against the wall to stop himself from falling down. "Thank you, Maester. Tell Rodrik and Jory to get a move on, too. I doubt we'll be needing anyone else."

With orders dispatched, Luwin set off again to see that they were carried out. Alone again, they fell into a warm embrace, remaining like that for a long time.

* * *

If Jon climbed onto the table in his little room, he could just about see out of the narrow slit of a window. There wasn't much to see, but he could just make out the narrow dirt track that led from the main road. He clambered up on to his lofty perch regularly, watching to see if he could spot Stark banners fluttering among the snow-covered fields beyond. But no one came. He had begun to suspect that his father and Lady Stark were leaving him there as punishment for his having run off in the first place.

Dejected, he climbed down from the desk after his toes began to hurt from his standing on them for so long and returned to the bed. With nothing to do, all he could do was lie back and hope to doze off again and pass a few in blissful unconsciousness. But no sleep came to him. Only a knock at the door that sent his hopes surging upwards that his father had finally arrived. Jumping up from the bed, he watched expectantly as he heard the bar being lifted outside and the door swinging open. Only for it to reveal the crazy lady from the night before. Immediately, Jon reclined backwards, trying not to let his bitter disappointment show. He had hoped she had been a vivid dream, but she was before him again as real as day.

Quietly, she closed the door behind her before crossing the room and kneeling in front of him. She was so tall and straight-backed, this was the only way they could be even with each other. Her voluminous black skirts pooled around her as she knelt. When she took a hold of his upper arms, he could feel her nails digging into his flesh, even though she did not hold him tightly. It was still enough to make him deeply uncomfortable. A feeling he tried to alleviate by backing away.

"Why isn't Lord Bolton with you?" he asked.

The woman, whose name he had forgotten, cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. "Lord Bolton doesn't know I am here."

"Why not? Have you come to take me home?" He remembered that she was a friend of his father's.

The Lady's eyes softened, her smile fading into sadness. "Child, Lord Bolton sent a Raven to your father as soon as he heard that you were taken by his men. That was almost three days ago, but we have not heard back from your father. Now Lord Bolton grows impatient; he doesn't know what to do with you."

The breath hitched in Jon's throat as he took in what she was saying. To his shame, he could feel his fear and confusion getting the better of him as tears welled up in his dark eyes. His front teeth troubled his lower lip as he attempting to keep control of himself. "So what now?" he asked, tremulously. "Is Lord Bolton putting me out? Why won't my father come and get me?"

The Lady sighed softly, before she dabbed a stray tear that had slipped down his cheek with the pad of her thumb. A tender act that acknowledged his pain without humiliating him for it. Then, she took his wrists and tugged him a little closer to her.

"I don't know, child. But you know what Lady Stark can be like," she answered. "But it's probably for the best that Lord Bolton puts you out-"

"How can that possibly be?"

"Come with me, and I'll show you," she said. "Have you got a cloak? I'm getting you out of here and bringing you home with me."

Jon replied with a jerky nod as he reached for the cloak, neatly folded at the end of the bed. The Lady helped him put it on, buttoning it at the throat and pulling the hood up to cover his hair. "If the guards say anything, I'll just tell them I'm taking you for a walk," she explained, in a voice barely above a whisper. "Really, you're very lucky that I just happened to be here when you arrived."

Jon hesitated. "I don't know," he said, at length. "Won't my father be even angrier with me if I leave here? What if he arrives only to find me gone again? I could just wait outside if Lord Bolton's tired of me taking up space."

It wouldn't be pleasant, but it still felt preferable to going with the lady, as well as his having genuine doubts about his father's reaction. But she didn't miss a beat.

"If your father does eventually come to get you, and he's angry that you didn't wait here; then speak to him of what I am about to show you."

Jon still hesitated. None of this felt right, but he had no other viable option. Faced with the prospect of another night locked in that tiny room, he took his chances and let the Lady lead him from the room. As they passed the guards on the stairwell outside, she addressed them by name.

"Lord Bolton gave his permission for this, Glynn. We'll be back in no more than an hour."

"Right you are, Lady Dustin," the man replied, before taking up his position outside a now empty room. Jon made sure to note the name, this time.

Down a narrow, twisting stairwell she led him. He thought that they would stop by the Great Hall and follow the connecting gallery inside. But she tugged sharply on his wrist to stop him going any farther when he set foot that way. Instead, they kept going further downwards, through a stairwell used only by servants. As a second guess, he wondered whether she was taking him to the kitchens. They passed them by, he could feel the heat of the open ovens and spit fires; the sickening smell of blood oozed from a nearby slaughter chamber. But he guessed wrong on that front, too. They reached another door, accessible only from the far end of the base floor, on the other side of which was another stair case.

Anxiety taking a hold of him, Jon dug in his heels and refused to move when Lady Dustin attempted to lead him down there. It was so dark, he could only see a few feet down, before the stone steps melted into darkness. What little he could see was illuminated only by the flickering torches set in sconces on the damp, stone walls. The smell of burning resin and dust was heavy on the air.

"Jon," she urgently whispered. "You must!"

"B-but where are you-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as she tugged his arm again, compelling him to follow or fall down the stairs. Righting his balance, he followed. Careful to keep the hems of his cloak clear of his feet, he cautiously took each step as it came. All the way down into the bowels of the Dreadfort. Once they finally reached the bottom, Lady Dustin brought Jon to a standstill at her side. She finally let go of his wrist and took one of the torches from the wall. Her free arm, she wrapped around his shoulders, bringing him in close.

They walked through a narrow passage way and reached a locked door. A locked door to which she had a key in the pocket of her cloak. Jon held the torch for her while she unlocked it. When she opened up, the smell of blood, mixed with human waste and sweat hit him like a slap in the face. He physically recoiled from it, making the light of the torch waver dangerously until Lady Dustin snatched it up from him.

"Careful," she admonished in a low voice. "There's guards on those other doors, you don't want them hearing us."

When she closed the door and locked it again, the distant sounds of the kitchen sudden shut off. It felt as though he was being buried alive. But as they entered the main chamber, Jon could see that walls were lined with doors. Wooden doors enforced with steel bars. Some shut tight. Some sitting ajar. Jon didn't like the look of any of them. His stomach clenched against the disgusting smell; fear heightened by the sense that the dark, damp walls were slowly closing in on him. Slowly, carefully, they walked by the doors. Straw and dirty rushes lined the floors of each cell, but they all appeared to be empty. Completely devoid of human life, although he could hear the unmistakable sound of rats nestling among the rushes. It was a sound that made the hairs at the back of his neck bristle.

They reached the middle door, where Lady Dustin paused and held out her torch hand. The flickering light drew Jon's gaze to the inside, where a vast wooden structure was fixed to the floor in shape of a letter X. He drew a sharp breath, instinctively jumping back as he recognised the device from the Bolton 'flayed man' sigil. Further illustration of the room's purpose came from a rack of knives next to another torture device Jon could not even name. It made him feel even more nauseous. If it had not been for Lady Dustin's grip on his shoulders tightening, he would have fled there and then. But she clung on so firmly, her nails were digging through the thick layers of clothes that covered him.

"Lord Bolton wasn't going to put you outside, boy," she whispered low in his ear. "He was going to put you in there."

She nodded toward the frame in the room opposite them. Jon gagged on his own fear now, almost managing to bolt. But Lady Dustin caught him again after a scuffle of boots on the flagstone. "If you run now, they'll catch you and flay you!" she hissed angrily in his ear. Jon tried to reply, but could only whimper.

Without wasting any more time, she led him onwards. Before they reached the opposite end of the chamber, however, she let the torch light linger over another open doorway. At first, Jon could not make out what was hanging there. Shapeless, off-colour, stretched out like animal hides and pegged to the roof beams. He could not tell how old the skins were, but he had no desire to find out. "Th-they're human!" he stammered, trying not to throw up all over her.

"Best not think about it, child," she replied, renewing her grip on him.

At the opposite end of the chamber, they reached another locked door that was also manned by Bolton Guards. Lady Dustin once more greeted them by name as they let her out, into another long, narrow passageway. She hurried him along, almost at a run. After a minute, the darkness of the tunnel grew lighter, the pathway sloping upwards gently. Even the air grew cooler and cleaner, once more. So clear, it was almost too much after being in those dungeons, it made Jon feel light headed. They passed more than one Guard as they went on their way; prompting Lady Dustin to pull Jon's hood down lower. However, she seemed to know them all by first name. Eventually, they emerged outside, in the open air. The tunnel had been so long, it led right out and under the Dreadfort's curtain walls. Jon, breathless and sweating, finally caved and vomited heavily as they reached the end of the tunnel. She rubbed his back while he heaved into the virgin snow that had piled up at the foot of the walls.

"There, there dear," she cooed softly. She even wiped his mouth, once he had voided his stomach.

But she did not hang around for long, afterwards. She reached for the keys she had and a purse at her belt, before walking back into the tunnel. Not daring to follow, he could just hear a muffled exchange of words and large amounts of coins changing hands. Jon's brow creased then. Why was she going to so much trouble? He though the guards were merely her friends, but she had bribed them to get him out of the castle.

"I hope your stomach has settled," she stated, reappearing from the mouth of the tunnel. "It's always a bumpy road."

Although he felt a little better, his stomach still roiled. But it was nowhere near as bad as his need to get away from the Dreadfort. "I'm fine," he stated, firmly.

Lady Dustin smiled, exposing the wrinkles round her eyes. "Come along then, my carriage is waiting just down the dirt track."

She walked in long, confident strides – as though she did this sort of thing every day. Jon had to jog to keep up with her. Suddenly, he felt ashamed of having thought badly of her. She was far braver than any other woman he had met. "I'm sorry if I was rude last night," he panted. "I just didn't know who you were."

Lady Dustin turned and waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing, boy. Now let's get you home. If that's where you want to go, of course?"

He thought that was a strange question. "Yes, to Winterfell please. My Father will listen to me, eventually."

She stifled a small laugh. "What? After he's whipped your arse to the bone, more than likely."

Jon shook his head. "He wouldn't do that, My Lady. But-"

Lady Stark would gladly do it, he thought to himself. Even Lady Dustin seemed to have guessed what the rest of his sentence would have been. She stopped and lowered down again, almost kneeling in the snow.

"Lady Stark is a bitter, vindictive bitch, Jon," she pointed out. "You know what she's like when her men become distracted away from her. And she'll be even more furious with you because Lord Stark will have been worried about you, instead of running around after her. And you father is too spineless to stand up to her. But only because Lady Stark's made him so guilty over you."

Jon didn't reply immediately. His brow creased, as once more he sensed the oddness in this woman. Lady Stark had been cold with him, but never cruel. Not that cruel, at least. But Lady Dustin was not deterred by his silence. She merely smiled again. "Come with me to Barrowton, and give your parents time to cool down and think things through. Then you will be welcomed back with open arms. How about that?"

That seemed fair to Jon. It might even work. A smile widened on his face as he gave a jerky nod that made the curls fall into his eyes. Lady Dustin brushed them aside, finally happy with his answer. "Well, let's not stay out in the cold. Let's go now."

And so, he did. To Barrowton: a place of greater safety in a world turned suddenly so terrifyingly dangerous.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely.**


	7. A Place of Greater Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.

Cautiously, Catelyn inched the door of the carriage open to be greeted by a biting, snow-flecked gust of wind. Darkness was settling after a fleeting dusk, but she could still hear the sound of the Weeping Water in full flow. In the distance, tiny pinpricks of torchlight flickered from the windows of the Dreadfort, its sinister merlons standing stark and jagged against the darkening skies. Shivering inside her furs, she slammed the carriage door closed again she returned to the close warmth of Eddard's arms. Their journey had been a long one; delayed while they rushed to pack warm clothes and a hamper of food for their missing charge.

Jon had fled Winterfell almost three days passed, with only the clothes he stood up. Roose Bolton's letter had made no mention of the condition the boy was in, so their initial relief had given way to a heightening anxiety. An anxiety that could not be dispelled until the boy was back in their care once more. Ned had been restless and withdrawn from the moment they left. If he couldn't avoid conversation, he answered her queries in as few words as possible. In response, Catelyn found herself repeating the same bland statements over and over: "at least we know he's safe now," or "he's alive; that's all that matters" and "the boys will be happy to see him again." Anything to break the silence.

It wasn't until they set off across the bridge to the Dreadfort that Ned finally began to relax. He tightened his grip on Catelyn, pulling her towards him and kissing her forehead. "I'm sorry," he said, again. He kept on apologising and she kept on batting those apologies away. Whatever the fallout from all this would be, they would tackle it when it came – together. But they were both jolted as the carriage came to a sudden halt before setting off across the bridge. The horses stamped and whinnied, a sound joined by the raised voices of some of their men. Both Ned and Catelyn raised their heads, looking to one another but not daring to speak.

Just as Ned went to open the carriage door and find out what was going on, fists pounded on it from outside.

"Lord Stark, a moment please."

"Jory," Ned murmured, frowning as he opened the door.

Their Captain of the Guard looked back at them apologetically, trying to keep his hair out of his eyes with one hand and clutching a squirming Robb Stark by the scruff of the neck with the other.

"My apologies Lord and Lady Stark, we didn't realise he was following us until we thought we were being tailed by brigands," he explained, hurriedly. "We thought it best left to you to deal with this one, my lord."

Catelyn's jaw dropped, her thunderstruck gaze falling from Jory and on to her eldest son. But it was Ned who reached out and hauled him into the carriage, cuffing him sharply as he went and eliciting an indignant 'ouch!' While he squeezed in between them on the bench of the carriage, they scolded him in unison.

"Gods, child, what were you thinking!" Catelyn admonished. "You were forbidden to leave the castle!"

While Ned furiously rounded on the boy. "And what if you ended up lost, as well?"

Unable to decide which way to look, Robb seemed to shrink into his furs. He at least had the decency to blush deeply. "We were allowed to come along on the search," he protested. "I was only trying to help."

"Disobeying orders is not helping, Robb," Catelyn pointed out.

"It was the right thing to do," he retorted, defiantly adding: "I'm not sorry."

"You will be!" Ned rejoined, darkly.

Catelyn and Ned looked at each other over Robb's head, exchanging exasperated looks as she put her arm around his shoulders. Ned's dark threat seemed to have silenced him, but as the journey continued in a mutinous silence, Robb turned his big blue eyes up to his mother. Brow furrowed into a hang-dog appeal, she tried to harden herself.

"Oh, no you don't young man," she cut in before he could say anything. "Don't try that on me."

"I'm not!" he replied, plaintively. "I'm starving, though. Can I have some of this?"

He made a move towards the hamper they packed for Jon that had been pushed under the seat. Again, Ned and Catelyn acted as one to smack his marauding hands away. "That's for your brother!" they chorused.

Pouting, Robb fell back into his seat, huddled up between his parents. They had been riding for almost twelve hours; hours in which Robb had been risking life and limb following at only the Gods knew what distance. Noble, but foolish. Catelyn was torn between smothering him in hugs and kisses, and giving him another smack. Ned's gaze was fixed out of the window again, watching as the foreboding Dreadfort grew larger until they were through the portcullis. When it came time to disembark, Ned turned his weary eye back to Catelyn, while nodding towards their errant son before getting out.

"Better make his punishment worth it and bring him in with us, I suppose."

Robb perked up, a hint of a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth as he slid down from his seat and followed his father into the courtyard. Then he stopped and turned, offering his arm to Catelyn to assist her disembarking. Even if she said it herself, she was proud of the gentleman he was shaping up to be. Despite his occasional act of flagrant wilfulness.

"You're going to get yourself in real trouble one day," she warned him, while still taking his arm.

"Mother," he said, standing on tiptoes to kiss her cheek. "I am sorry."

When she rolled her eyes, it was more at her inability to stay angry with him than it was directly at him. She ruffled his hair, almost getting her fingers tangled in his auburn curls. "No promises, but I'll talk to your father."

Lord Bolton was waiting to greet them outside the Great Hall of the Dreadfort. Catelyn noted a thin, pale youth standing alongside him. Knowing Domeric to be fostered at the Vale, she could only assume it was his bastard, Ramsay. But if the last few days had taught her anything, it was to step back from assuming she knew the truth about anyone's parentage. Hiding her distaste, she and Robb came to rest alongside one another, while their retinue remained crowded around the horses and carriages.

"Welcome, Lord and Lady Stark," Roose greeted them, descending the small stone steps. "And this must be your eldest son?"

His expressionless grey eyes fell on Robb, positioned between his parents, and there lingered for several unnerving seconds. A benign smile played across his face as he eventually formally welcomed them each in turn. He always looked so insubstantial to Catelyn, like he was slowly having his own soul sapped away. Still, she returned his welcome with a kiss on each cheek.

"We won't take up much of your time, Lord Bolton," said Ned. "We'll collect Jon then be straight on our way again."

"The Maester's already gone to collect him," he stated. "But you're more than welcome to lodge in our guest house overnight. It's a twelve hour ride back to Winterfell."

Nevertheless, the three of them followed Lord Bolton and his household inside for the wait. Catelyn had only even seen the Dreadfort from the outside before, and even that was only in passing as they travelled to Karhold. Meanwhile, Ned had declined the offer of an overnight stay in the Dreadfort. She wondered whether it was something to do with the old stories about the skins of flayed Starks still hanging, preserved for all time, in the dungeons. She turned her face from the banner of the flayed man, biting down on her own rising discomfort. When she did look back at Lord Bolton, he was sat at the high table with the Maester bent double and whispering in his ear. Both she and Ned looked around for Jon, but there was no sign of him.

The stairwell to the side of the hall was void of life. A door engraved with a replica of the flayed man stood resolutely closed. Unless he was hiding in the rafters above their heads, Catelyn had to admit the signs did not look promising. Not least when Bolton blanched, his thin brow arching in shock. Beside her, Ned had gone rigid. She turned to look up at him, noting the hard look in his dark grey eyes and the grim set of his jaw. Robb, also, was picking up on the changing atmosphere. The conversation between Lord Bolton and the Maester was growing more heated, but they could not hear what was being said. Until Roose himself got back up, pushed past his bastard son at the end of the table and approached them in agitation. He held out his hands in a manner of supplication, a faint trace of colour in his face.

"There seems to be a problem," he stated, gruffly. "It seems he's been taken again."

Catelyn didn't think she had heard properly, but Ned was already resting one hand against the hilt of Ice, his greatsword. Instinctively, she placed one of her own arms round his waist, a silent imploration for calm. Slowly, they moved round one of the lower tables as Bolton quickly added: "I can guess where he is."

* * *

Exhausted by not just the long day, but all that it had entailed, Jon had nodded off. His head rested gently against Lady Dustin's shoulder, where she could feel his soft, dark curls against her cheek. His soft snores were barely audible over the creaking, bumping wheels of the carriage; if she looked down, she could see the long, dark lashes resting against his pale cheek. Her own arm had gone numb, where it was draped over his narrow shoulders and wedged against the headrest. But she did not mind and let him sleep on. She only moved to make sure his cloak was fastened securely around his shoulders, and the blanket over his knees warding off other draughts.

The carriage hit another bump in the road as they pulled into Barrowton and began the step ascent up hill. It jolted them both and made Jon squirm and snuffle in his sleep.

"Hush, Sweetling," she cooed, using her free hand to smooth back his hair. "We're almost home now."

They entered via the eastern gate, passing the keep of House Stout of the Goldgrass. From there, the climb got steadily steeper, causing the weary horses to struggle after so long a trek. But if they failed, it still wouldn't take long to change them over with beasts from the Stouts hold. The prospect of a delay did nothing to wear at her patience, either. It was all the more time before she had to wake the boy and start answering his inevitable questions.

She knew that she had already roused his curiosity about her. All the trouble she had gone to smuggle him out of the Castle had paid off. It was one forwards step, but she still couldn't fully see the way ahead. The only thing she knew was that she would be doling out a lot more bribes over the coming days. All the while, the last leg of their journey continued. The wheels of the carriage ground over loose stones, waking Jon with a startled gasp as they hit a deep pothole.

"Where are we?" he asked, breathless after his fright.

Barbrey smiled, once more using her free hand to brush loose curls from his eyes. "We're almost there," she replied, soothingly. "There will be a warm bed waiting for you when we get there; I've already sent an out-rider to send word to my servants."

Even in the poor light, his dark eyes shone. But his pale skin looked almost grey.

"Thank you, Lady Dustin," he said. "When we arrive, will you send word to my father?"

It cost her a great effort to keep her gentle smile in place. "Of course," she said. "But let's leave it until the morning; once we're both rested." His expression darkened, she could feel him inching away from her. Quickly, she added: "We can write the letter together, and you should think on what to say to Lord Stark."

That made him feel better, she could see the dull glimmer of white teeth as he smiled again.

"That's a better idea," he concurred. "I want to tell him I miss him, and my brothers and sisters. And that I'm so sorry for all the trouble I've caused and I don't care what he does to me; I just want to see him again. I want to come home."

He was becoming distressed; she could feel his lean body grow tense, so Barbrey tightened her grip on his shoulders for reassurance. "And I will help you," she assured him. "But you must be well rested and thinking clearly when we word it. It must be just so."

Jon relaxed again, letting his head rest against her shoulder once more. She closed her eyes, letting herself imagine for just one moment that Brandon was in the carriage with them and Jon their son. A flight of fancy she indulged for just a few precious moments before another ugly obstacle presented itself.

"Tell me, Lord Snow, has Lord Eddard ever mentioned anything about your mother to you?" she asked.

There was every possibility the boy had been told in private and sworn to secrecy. But Jon dispelled that.

"No. Nothing."

Barbrey still was not convinced. "Not even in secret? You know you can trust me, Jon."

"That's the truth," he replied, more agitated. "I've begged him over and over, and he tells me nothing. Then he gets angry and sends me to my chambers. He hasn't even told Lady Stark; I don't think he'll ever tell me. She was probably some whore."

The carriage bumped over the drawbridge to Barrow Hall, and Lady Dustin smiled into the darkness. "I can assure you, child, your mother was no whore."

She dropped that clue and fixed her gaze on the dark boards of the carriage in front of her, waiting to see if Jon would pick up on it. Instantly, he tensed. She could feel his gaze fixed on her, but she concentrated still on the partition boards.

"What?" he asked. "Did you know her? Do you know who she was?"

Her smile widened. "Was? Don't you mean 'is'?"

"Is she still alive?" he asked, his voice getting higher with nervous excitement.

It was like hanging a carrot on a stick, all she had to do was let him follow it. But only so far, for now.

"I fear I have said too much," she replied, affecting an air of trepidation. "It is no longer my place-"

"It is your place; tell me please Lady Dustin," he begged.

He had climbed up on the bench, kneeling so that he was level with her. She could feel his longing gaze fixed intently on the side of her face. He really hadn't been told anything, no boy of thirteen could act like this. Satisfied, she turned to face him and gently sat him back in his place. He allowed himself to be put back in place in the hope his good behaviour would change her mind and elicit more information. Luckily for her, they had already pulled up outside Barrow Hall and servants were scurrying forwards to help them unload.

"This is too much for tonight, we will speak properly in the morning," she promised him as they mounted the wooden stairs to the keep. When they reached the top, well away from her staff, she paused and turned Jon to face her. In the light of the flaming beacons, she could see his agonised expression clearly. "When we do speak in the morning, you must make a solemn vow in the Godswood before the Old Gods, to breathe a word of what I tell you to no one. Do you agree?"

Jon nodded. "I agree."

"Not even your fath- I mean Lord Stark – must ever be told," she added. "Understand?"

He frowned at her hastily rearranged wording, causing a small flash of triumph to swell in her. But he quickly brushed it aside in his head, and nodded vigorously. "I'll do whatever you want, I promise. I just want the truth."

Barbrey smiled, satisfied that she was inching closer to her nebulous goal. "Good boy. Now my servant, Beron, will show you to your chamber. I will come to say good night as soon as I've spoken to my Maester."

They parted ways as Beron appeared to lead Jon into the castle. Barbrey watched them pass out of sight before approaching her Maester who was hovering just inside the porch way.

"Maester Wyllys," she greeted him. "I need you to do something for me."

He was aged man who had been in service to her own father, in his day. Having served her family faithfully for so long, all the trust she had left in her she placed in his wizened hands.

"Anything, my lady."

"I need you to draw up a marriage contract," she said, dropping her voice.

He raised his head to look properly at her, a smile on his thin pink lips. "You are ready to wed again? To Lord Bolton, perhaps?"

She smiled. "Of course not," she corrected him. "To the late Brandon Stark, of course."

His brow knotted in confusion. "Come again, my lady. I don't think I understood."

She sighed. "You must have forgotten. But Brandon and I were married shortly before he set out for King's Landing and met his tragic death. That's why he couldn't marry Catelyn Tully, you see. So be a good fellow and draw up the contract, dated for that year."

He wasn't senile; he wasn't a fool. He knew he was being asked to trot out an enormous lie; but it wasn't in the Maester's contract to question the houses he served. They were also talking about a date no more than fifteen years ago, so she didn't have to age the document. The Septon conveniently died, along with the witnesses unless she could bribe someone to recover a false memory. But Jon's age discrepancy would be a problem, so she ran through a likely story in her head. They were married the day before Brandon left for King's Landing, the marriage consummated the morning after. She found out she was pregnant three months after his death. To hide the shame of her pregnancy, she was forced to marry Ser Willam. For now, she only needed to convince Jon himself.

"I must advise your ladyship-"

"No, you mustn't," she said. "I don't yet know what I will do with it. For now I just want it. Please, Maester."

He knew she was giving him no choice.

* * *

Ned had taken to pacing the Great Hall of the Dreadfort while pulling agitatedly at his own hair. Mercifully, Robb had had enough sense to realise when not to argue with his father and allowed himself to be banished to a guest room while the adults talked it out. Wherever he was, he was being entertained by Roose's bastard son and one of the Stark guards. Rodrik and Jory Cassel had joined them inside the Hall. They all listened to Bolton's explanation.

"You know what Barbrey Dustin can be like, Lord Stark," he said. "I assure you, a full investigation will be conducted and when I find out who among my household was responsible, well…"

Ned's gaze automatically turned once more to the flayed man banner. Yes, he knew well what would happen to the culprits. Under any other circumstances, such a notion would have sickened him. His restless pacing ceased as he came to a halt and leaned against the back of the same chair he had just vacated.

"Barbrey Dustin has taken Jon as revenge for my leaving Ser Willam's body in Dorne? Is that really it?" he demanded. "It was years ago!"

Lord Bolton regarded Ned carefully. "She has certain … notions … in her head, with regards to your bastard's true parentage."

Ned's heartbeat skipped several beats, unconsciously his grip on the chair back tightened and turned his knuckles white. But it was Cat who spared him the need of answer, by asking a highly pertinent question.

"How did Barbrey Dustin even know Jon was here? To reach the Dreadfort from Barrowton, she must have set out well before us."

Ned studied Bolton's reaction carefully, but the man didn't miss a beat.

"She was already here when he arrived. You see, my son Domeric – her nephew – is due to visit and she looks upon him almost as a son," he explained. "Naturally, she did not want to miss him."

Domeric had served for years as Barbrey's page. Despite that brief hesitation, Bolton's explanation was more than plausible. But something still wasn't adding up in his head.

"We must leave at once," he stated. "Dare I even ask what her notions about Jon's mother are?"

Bolton got to his feet. "Barbrey's notions are a waste of valid breath," he pointed out. "But wait, Lord Stark. My retinue will join yours and we will ride out to Barrowton together at first light. I can talk sense into her. I know I can."

He was loth to delay any further. But Cat's appeal won the day.

"Ned, it makes sense. Our men will be too exhausted and Barrowton is so far away," she said, looking up at him.

Ned sincerely hoped Bolton would be as good as his word.

* * *

Having slept so soundly during his long journey, Jon was as good as wide awake as he lay in bed that night. Being in another strange bed; under another strange roof, in the home of an even stranger lady, did not help his cause. But, just before he blew out his candle, the door opened and Lady Dustin stepped into the chamber. She was still fully dressed in her customary black, sweeping into the room and kneeling at his bedside. Once there, she fussed with the quilts and furs that comprised his bedding.

"I can't sleep," he said, curling up all the same.

She smiled down at him, smoothing back the hair from his brow. "Try for me, otherwise I will worry."

Why did she care so much? He asked himself over and over. She had rescued him from certain death at the Dreadfort; brought him into her home and was now taking as much care of him as Lady Stark did her own children. Now, she was kneeling on the hard stone floor and fussing over him as he tried to sleep, despite having only met him two days before. The possibilities in Jon's head were endless.

"I wish you could tell me now," he said, sleepily. "I know you know something."

"I know everything," she corrected him, before kissing his cheek. "The Old Gods bless you, child. I'll see you first thing and then we'll talk. But only if you're good and sleep as I tell you."

She got up, extinguished his candle and left; leaving nothing more the lingering scent of her rosewater as she vanished round the door. Unlike Roose Bolton, she did not lock him in. Jon turned over, burying his face in the plump feather pillow. 'It's her,' he thought to himself, but instantly dismissed the idea. Then he remembered Roose Bolton saying she was a friend of his father's. From long ago? He had never seen her Winterfell before, which made sense if she was his mother. The more he tried to stem the flow of his own speculations, the harder it became. The feeling of the truth, so close now he could almost feel his fingertips brushing against its shining surface, was too sweet to pass up.

* * *


	8. The Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has read, reviewed and added kudos to this story. It means a lot. Please enjoy the new chapter.

"Over here, Jon!" Lord Stark's voice called to him through the darkness, but Jon couldn't see him. He couldn't see anything, but he knew where he was by the rank, foetid smell of the Dreadfort dungeons. The ground he lay on was uneven and strewn with dirty rushes that clung to him as he found his feet and hauled himself up. Once standing upright, his knees felt weak and a heightening anxiety prickled unpleasantly throughout his body. Blinking rapidly into the darkness, he struggled to adjust his vision, but to little effect. Only when his father's voice called out to him again, in an urgent whisper, did things become clearer.

"Jon! Come to me, you're mine!"

Finally, he could make out his father's face peering at from behind one the of the locked cell doors, through the barred spy hole. A weak source of light from within casting a pallid, grey glow – just enough to see by. Relief swept over him and he went to rush to the door of the cell to prise it open; he wanted only to throw himself into his father's arms. But a second voice cut through the weakening darkness.

"Don't listen to him Jon, come to me!"

Jon whirled round, to where Lady Dustin called to him from cell opposite his father's. He could just make out her anxious face peering through the slot in the door, her long nose pushed through the metal bars as she continued beckoning him over.

"I want my father," he tried to say, but his tremulous voice was drowned out by another.

"Jon, come to me!" Lady Stark's face was peering at him from a third cell, next to her husband's. "I am the only mother you'll ever know, Jon!"

He backed away, almost tripping over himself as he tried to find his father again. But the pallid, grey light ebbed and flowed, only growing stronger if the people in the cells were calling out to him. Inadvertently, he had stumbled towards Lady Dustin, who had reached one arm through the bars of her door and could just brush the tips of her fingers against his face. Physical contact that made him flinch. His father saw it too, prompting him to call out to Jon again. But then a fourth voice entered the fray.

"They're all liars, Jon!"

A large man who resembled his father greatly was leaning almost casually against his door, grinning at him through the spy slot. Uncle Brandon? He wondered to himself. But he didn't have long to ponder the point before Roose Bolton, seemingly imprisoned in one of his own cells, threw a key to him through the bars. Jon heard the metallic clatter as it bounced off the dirty cobbles that made up the dungeon floor.

"One key; one door. Choose wisely, child," said Bolton, as Jon stooped to retrieve it.

As soon as the key was in his hand, all the voices called out to him at once. A tumultuous cacophony in which individual words were lost in a buzz of shouting, angry voices. Instinctively, he tried to cover his ears to drown out the racket everyone had started to make and he spun round on the spot, trying to decide who to go to. But each voice was a physical pull, tugging him in all directions at once.

"Stop it!" he tried to shout out, but it was lost among the din.

Dizzy and disorientated, he fell backwards, landing hard on his backside as he hit the cobbles. But still the four voices all shrieked at him in unison, so he screwed his eyes shut. He could no longer bear to look at them; their angry voices lost in the confusion to form one nebulous buzz in his head. Only then did the rank stench of the Dreadfort dungeons slowly clear as the familiar smell of his home cut through. Slowly, at first, so much so he could not define what that smell was. Clear and sweet, and so familiar he half expected to open his eyes and find himself back in Winterfell.

When he did open his eyes again, he could see down the length of the dungeons. To where a girl of no more than sixteen looked at him, like the others, through the spy slot of her cell door. He could only see her face, and the blue winter roses she wore in her dark hair; one bloom perched behind her ear. Their scent filled the whole room with sweetness, but silent tears cascaded down her pale face as she looked at him. Unlike the others, she was silent. The look in her dark, grey eyes was of desperate longing and fear, but she made no attempt to speak. Drawn to her, the noise of the others receded as he focused only on her. But when he went to move towards her, he fell straight back down again, banging his knees against the cold, hard cobbles, waking abruptly as he felt himself being literally dragged upwards.

He awoke properly with a startled gasp, looking all about him in the strange room he awoke in. But if he needed any kind of reminder, Lady Dustin was at his bedside already. She was rubbing his back while he kneaded the residue of the dream from his eyes.

"You were dreaming, child," she said, worriedly. "Was it a nightmare?"

Details of the dream already grew nebulous, but Jon remembered the many voices all calling out to him, pulling him in so many different directions at once. He had wanted to please them all; to go to them all at once. Meanwhile, back in the real world, Lady Dustin drew him into a close embrace as she sat at the edge of his bed. She tucked his head under her chin, while wrapping her arms around him protectively. Part of him wanted to recoil from her; another part surrendered the will to fight and simply gave into it.

"Hush, child," she soothed, even though he made no sound. "You and I need to talk. Remember?"

Jon remembered. He raised his head up from beneath her chin, so he could see her properly. "Now?"

She smiled, appreciatively. "As soon as you're dressed and fed. So hurry."

Already, Barbrey Dustin was swathed in her customary black gowns. Her hair done already, swept up elegantly. After she had tousled his own unruly curls, she rose to her feet and swept out of the room, once more leaving his door open. Jon watched her leave, already anticipating the conversation ahead.

* * *

Rather than having Robb's riderless horse following their retinue, Ned had instructed the boy to mount and follow them home on horseback. Catelyn was with him, in the back of their carriage, but with her eyes fixed out of the window, to where their eldest son rode alongside Roose Bolton and his bastard, Ramsay Snow. Every so often, she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. If she withdrew from the window at all, she would lean back against the headrest and look at him sidelong.

"Don't you think there's something off about him?" she asked.

"He's fine!" Ned retorted, brushing her concerns off as a motherly over-protectiveness. "It'll do him good to have company with someone his own age."

"Not Robb, Ned; I meant that other boy."

Ned had to admit that the large, gawping watery blue eyes and the vacant grin on Ramsay Bolton's face was a tad unnerving. He leaned forwards, to see what it was Cat was looking so disapprovingly at. The Boltons and Robb, alongside Jory, were level with the carriage, but some few feet away. Robb clung close to Jory, casting dark looks towards Ramsay as thought making sure the bastard wasn't getting too close. Robb's stand-offish attitude was all too obvious, but Ramsay didn't seem to have a care in the world.

"We should bring him in with us," Catelyn said.

"Ramsay or Robb?"

"Robb!" Catelyn laughed. "Gods, Ned."

But Eddard wouldn't hear of it. "It'll only embarrass him. Anyway, it'll teach him to stay at home, next time."

The plan was to travel to Winterfell and exchange their weary horses. Robb was to be left in the care of Maester Luwin – under lock and key, if need be. Then immediately setting off for Barrowton.

"What do you think she wants?" asked Catelyn, referring to Barbrey Dustin. "I mean, why would she take a child?"

There was an undertone to what she was saying. Ned could pick up on it, reading between the lines. _'Does she know anything?'_ is what Cat was really asking. For long moment, he did not make any reply. He needed a moment to think things through. But his prolonged silence only seemed to confirm Cat's darkest concerns. He could sense her increasing tension.

"She doesn't know anything," he finally stated. "Even if she suspects something, she can't prove anything."

Cat pulled the velvet curtain over the window, prompting Ned to do the same on his side. Although the drape blotted out the daylight, making them squint at one another through the gloom, it closed them in for greater privacy.

"Howland Reed is the only man alive, besides you, who knows the truth, right?" Catelyn asked in hushed tones.

"He wouldn't betray me; he wouldn't betray Lyanna's memory," Ned was adamant. "Especially not to Barbrey Dustin."

"Then what's she playing at, Ned? We know how damn unreasonable she is. She has a lifelong vendetta against us both!"

They both knew from where the bad blood stemmed. 'Stolen' fiancés; one dead husband and an accursed horse. Now, they both suspected Jon was about to become the latest weapon used against them in a long campaign of bitter enmity. When Catelyn looked at him again, he could see by the look in her eye what she wanted him to do next: protect them all, and call his banners, raise a host and march on Barrow Hall at full force. But at this stage of the game, Ned still favoured the cautious approach and told her as much before she could go there. Her expression darkened.

"What if she goes to King Robert?" she asked. "Would he believe her over you?"

Ned almost laughed. "Robert is like a brother to me, Cat."

Catelyn seemed at least a little mollified. "Have you heard from him lately? Maybe now might be a good time to remind him of your close and enduring brotherhood?"

Ned found himself warming to the idea instantly. "Once this is over, I might just send a messenger to Court-"

"I was thinking of something bigger than that," Catelyn cut in. "Maybe, it's time we extended an invite and offered to host him, Queen Cersei and their children here at Winterfell? Make it a real show of Northern loyalty."

Ned hesitated. Sending expensive gifts down to King's Landing was one thing. Bringing them all North and hosting them in his own home, was quite another. But there was no denying the sense in Cat's suggestion. More than ever, Ned had to be absolutely certain that King Robert would take his word over anyone else's; nothing could be taken for granted. On the upside, if the Royal Court did decide to travel north, it would take well over a year to organise and longer still to actually implement. It was not an idea he was prepared to dismiss lightly.

* * *

Breakfast consisted of wheaten bread, fresh churned butter and honey. Bacon had been set aside for him, too, but the butterflies in his stomach ruled it out. He grazed lightly, washing it down with sweet tea. The hall he found himself in was smaller, less grand than that at both Winterfell and the Dreadfort. But it was more comfortable; warmer and more welcoming. A fire blazed in a hearth close to Jon's table, which took up most of the dais. On the opposite side, Lady Dustin sat nursing a goblet of honey mead, with just a plain oat cake for sustenance. At her feet, a hopeful looking hound pawed at her lap.

They were alone together. It seemed that Lady Dustin kept only a small household at Barrow Hall, but what servants there were had been dismissed as soon as breakfast had been served. But thus far, she had not said anything beyond "pass the milk" or "want some more tea?" It was usually around this time that his father would change his mind about telling Jon about his mother, and he half-expected Lady Dustin to do the same. Just as he was draining his tea, however, she finally started talking.

"Your step-mother has always loathed me."

It took Jon a minute to realise she was talking about Lady Stark, whom he had never regarded as a step-mother before. She had only ever been Lady Stark, the woman who married his father.

"She hates me too," he pointed out.

Lady Dustin laughed, but not unkindly. "Oh, this is different child. You see, my father wanted me to marry your father, Lord Stark. Whereas she was intended for your father's older brother, Brandon. But, Brandon and I…"

Her sentence trailed off, her countenance taking on a faraway look as she reached back into her memories. Jon was left wondering, guessing at where she was going. Without wishing to rush her, he gently nudged her along. "Did you know my Uncle Brandon well?"

"Very well," she replied. "He and I married in secret."

Jon almost choked on his mouthful of bread. He had to swallow the bite whole and take a hasty sip of tea to help it down. Small wonder Lady Stark hated her, then. Lady Dustin was still smiling kindly at him. He heard a rustle of stiff fabrics as she got to her feet and crossed to his side of the table, the hopeful hound following her. She sat down again at his side.

"We were not married for long," she continued. "Two days later, we received word that your aunt Lyanna had been abducted by Rhaegar Targaryen. Brandon left for King's Landing immediately, along with your Grandfather. You know what happened next, don't you?"

Jon nodded, unsure of what platitude of sympathy best to try and console her with. It was awkward, but he managed a stiff: "I'm sorry".

She waved it away with one hand, dismissively. "Brandon gave me something beautiful to remember him by."

Curious, Jon sat up a little straighter, turning to see her properly. "What was that?"

"All in good time, child," she said, smoothing back his hair. "Your uncle had curls like that," she wistfully pointed out. Then, she seemed to give herself a shake, bringing herself back on topic. "My father found out about the marriage and was utterly incensed. Brandon was dead; I had only his gift to me, and my father knew I was damaged goods-"

"Why? That's cruel!" Jon interjected.

"That's just the way things are," she stated, calmly. "In the meantime, the man I was intended to marry had married Catelyn Tully, so father needed a good match for me as soon as possible, before anything one else noticed the gift that Brandon gave to me."

"Ser Willam?" asked Jon, gently.

Lady Dustin smiled again. "He was a good man, don't misunderstand me. A good, decent man. He did not mind the gift Brandon had given me."

The penny had already dropped in Jon's mind. "You were with child?"

He did not dare to venture any further than that, preferring to let her get there herself.

"Ser Willam and I were going to raise you together, Jon," she said, the smile on her face dying away as she revealed the truth.

Jon's heart flipped. It was the thing he had not dared to think of. Uncomfortable and dazed, he turned away from her, looking into the depths of his goblet as he tried to process what she was telling him.

"I… I don't understand…" he stammered. "Lord Stark is my father; why would he lie to me?"

He tried not to cry, but the tears were already filling his eyes. Lady Dustin eased off, her expression falling as she watched his agonised reaction.

"Don't you understand, child, you are Brandon Stark's heir," she pointed out. "Lord Stark knew you are Brandon's trueborn son, and that he had to act fast. He took my husband south, to Dorne, where he was conveniently killed in battle. But I cannot prove anything, it was highly convenient to Ned Stark to leave me a widow once more. He couldn't even do me the courtesy of bringing back Ser Willam's body. Why do you think that was? Maybe it was because he couldn't afford to let people see his poisoned body-"

Jon cut in on a surge of confused frustration. "My father would not do that!"

"He is not your father," Lady Dustin retorted. "Are you listening to me? I was left a grieving widow, with a new born infant to take care of. Then Lord Stark came back here, returning Ser Willam's horse to me. It was then that he took you away from me."

Through the fog of confusion and disbelief that had clouded his mind, just one word leapt out at Jon. Why. He asked her why, again and again.

"Why would he do that? What would he gain?"

Lady Dustin did not reply immediately. She drew a deep breath, giving Jon time to do the same before continuing.

"You are Brandon's trueborn son, Jon. You became Lord of Winterfell upon his death-"

"But I was a baby!"

His interruption irritated her; a brief flash of annoyance in her eyes that was swiftly suppressed.

"He took you back to your ancestral lands, as was right," she pointed out. "I expected you to be taken to Winterfell, and Eddard Stark to act as your Lord Protector until you come of age. He told me he would send for me, as soon as you were settled – because you were almost one at that time - and the new King had been successfully crowned. You see, Jon, these were dangerous times. We had to be so very careful, and I foolishly thought your Uncle Eddard had your best interests at heart. But he usurped you; came up with some story about an affair he had had with some whore by the name of Wylla, or just ignored the question of your mother altogether. You know who evasive he is about it, Jon. Now you know why. He made you think you were a bastard, entitled to nothing except an early death in the Night's Watch."

Jon was reeling, unable to think straight. "But Lady Stark has-"

"Lady Stark hates you, you said that yourself," she cut in before he could ask anything. "She doesn't hate you, Jon. She fears you. She knows that should you ever learn the truth, you could unseat her precious boy Robb and have him swept away like last night's rushes. How could she ever love a child that could be the death of hers?"

"But why?" he demanded. "If you speak true, why did you let it happen?"

Lady Dustin laughed. Jon's eyes narrowed as he watched her, wondering what joke he had missed.

"I was friends with your Aunt Lyanna," she began, after composing herself. "Who was betrothed to King Robert Baratheon when he was still just the Lord of the Stormlands. You know Rhaegar abducted her, raped her and killed her, don't you?"

Jon nodded. "Yes."

"No," she stated, firmly. "Lyanna left of her own free will, and I – the Old Gods forgive me – helped to facilitate it. She adored him, Jon, he adored her. It was the same love that Brandon and I had for each other. There was an exchange of letters that I sent to Lyanna, detailing what was going to happen, and how she and Rhaegar would be together. Ned got hold of those letters, maybe he found them among Lyanna's possessions at the Tower of Joy. I cannot say for sure, but he got them. When I came for you, about a year after you were taken to Winterfell, when you were almost three years old, he showed them to me. He told me, if I ever showed my face in Winterfell again, he would show those letters to King Robert and have me executed for treason. You know Robert loves Lyanna still, and will kill me for sure if he finds out what I did. Then I would never see you again, and no one would ever find out the truth about Ned Stark."

The Ned Stark that Lady Dustin was talking about was so at odds with the Ned Stark who had raised him at Winterfell, that Jon could not equate them. He tried, but it made him feel sick and dizzy. His breath was coming in short, sharp rasps as he struggled for air. Shaking, he tried to stand up, bumping painfully against the table as he went. For years, he had yearned for the truth. But if this was it, he longed to ignorance.

"I need air," he stated, breathlessly. "Please, I need air."

Without waiting for permission, he extricated himself from the breakfast table and bolted for the door.

 


	9. Truth Massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this, it means a lot. Thank you. Apologies for the slight delay in updating, as well. Hopefully, the next chapter will be more prompt.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Truth Massage**

Even outside in the open, where he breathed in deep lungfuls of clean, frigid air; Jon's head still spun like a child's top. Steadying himself against a low stone wall that ran round the edge of a wide frozen pond, he shut his eyes and massaged his temples. Everything Lady Dustin had told him formed a mass of knotted yarn in his head that he couldn't even begin to unpick. Names stuck out, but times and dates blurred; events becoming confused with each other. For his whole life, he had looked upon his father as a man of singular honour – something he had tried to mould himself into as he grew older. He had endeavoured to be just like him; had he fashioned himself on a lie? Anger vied with disbelief beneath a cloud of plain old confusion as he tried to rehash the conversation again.

When he opened his eyes again, he drew a deep breath and brought himself to full height before perching himself on the wall. It was cold, making him shiver, but it also served to jolt him further out of his tangled thoughts. From there, he took in his new surroundings. Barrowton did not have anywhere near as much land as Winterfell. But there was a glass garden in which wild vegetables were being coaxed from the soil; a forge next door to some stables and a tower that served as a home for the Ravens. Thick curtain walls formed a protective embrace around the lot, making it as good as impregnable. It had everything a fortress needed, writ small.

If he looked towards the Great Hall of the Keep, he could just see Lady Dustin's face peering out from behind the mullions. She was watching him carefully, but stepped back from the window when she saw that he had noticed. It gave him pause for thought as her pallid reflection reclined from view. He shied back; hopping down from the wall and moving to sit at the opposite side where he could not be so easily seen. From the other side, he could look out over the scuffed surface of the frozen pond – as uninspiring a sight as it was.

Once settled behind the wall, he sat in the banked up snow and drew his knees up to his chest. No matter what Lady Dustin said, he wanted Lord Stark there with them to talk things through once more. There was no way he could get that story straight in his head without help from Lord Stark, and lies always dripped so gracefully from the lips of enemies. But, he knew the story fit. Too well. All he knew was that he needed Lord Stark here, so he could get the full story instead of one stranger's version of it.

Growing restless once more, he climbed back to his feet and brushed the loose snow from his cloak before setting off across the forecourt. What few other people there were in the grounds paid him little heed as he passed. There was an unmanned posturn gate that seemed to lead through the curtain walls. He could walk out at that moment and send word to his father from the nearest village. But all he could see in the near distance was a windmill, and even that was stationary on the snow covered horizon.

"Jon!"

He whirled round at the sound of his name, to find Lady Dustin standing in the doorway of the Castle.

"Where are you going?"

She did not sound angry, but he could see she had no intention of letting him simply walk away.

"Nowhere," he replied, dejectedly.

Wrapping a black woollen scarf around her narrow shoulders, Lady Dustin began walking towards him in small, careful steps. The ground was slippery, and her heeled boots crunched against the sheet ice that covered the cobbles.

"Then you should come back inside, child."

Jon did not move as he watched her drawing closer. For years he had yearned for the truth of who his mother really was. He would have given anything; done anything. But now it was out, he didn't know where to turn or what to believe. That man she told him about, whoever he was, was not the Eddard Stark that he knew.

"I want to go home," he said, taking a backwards step.

"I will take you home," she replied, extending one arm towards him. "When we take back Winterfell."

As for that, Winterfell was Lord Eddard's, then it would be Robb's in his turn. Jon could never see himself as Lord of Winterfell, no matter what Lady Dustin said. It was too much. It was too convenient.

"There's so much I don't understand," Jon rejoined.

"Well, come back inside and we can talk more," she replied.

Her hand was still extended towards him, enticing him back inside. Reluctantly, he complied. The look of relief in her eyes was visible as he reached her, as though she had been expecting more of a fight from him. But he had no choice. He had come this far along the path to the truth, that even if he did run now, he knew he could regret it for the rest of his days. Once back inside, the warmth closed over him and made his cold skin tingle unpleasantly. Barbrey Dustin led him back to the table he had been sitting at that morning, during the initial discussion, and he found himself back there once again.

Wine had been procured since he had left. Warmed, spiced wine that Lady Dustin decanted into two goblets and let Jon have one, too.

"My father doesn't normally let me-" he began.

"Lord Stark," she corrected him, pointedly. "Is neither your father, nor is he here. Drink up, child."

Jon removed his wet cloak before cupping his goblet in both hands, warming them up against the hot liquid inside. Still, he could not think of Lord Stark as anything but his father.

"If Lord Stark really did usurp me, why didn't he kill me?" he asked, directing the question at Barbrey. "I was a baby; he could have smothered me and said it was natural. Loads of babies die in their sleep with no explanation. If he had done that, then Winterfell would have been his and I would be no threat at all."

He watched her reaction carefully, searching for any sign that she was making this up as she went along. But there was nothing that he could see and the only reason she did not answer immediately was because she was taking a long sip of her wine.

"Eddard isn't completely without honour, Jon," she finally replied. "Kinslayers are damned in the eyes of the Gods – the Old as well as the New. Why murder an infant when the deception was so easily borne?"

Jon shrugged. "That still doesn't make sense. He left you alive and you know the truth-"

"He's put out word that I am insane," she countered. "Easily done, given what happened to Willam. Or rather, what he did to Willam."

All the time, a small voice at the back of his head screamed 'no'. Lord Stark was not like this.

"But he's been good to me all my life," said Jon. "He' given me everything-"

"Except a name," she cut in. "He's brought you into his family. This close, but no further; there's always been that barrier though, hasn't there? You are not acknowledged as a Stark."

"But that's only because of Lady Stark," he countered again.

"He is her Lord, Jon, if he wanted to give you his name, he could and would. Lady Stark's animus toward you is merely his excuse for not acknowledging you as a Stark."

She was becoming impatient with his questioning, he could tell. Her brow had furrowed into a glower; the pitch of her voice getting higher. But he had to know; he had to keep asking.

"But if I'm such a danger to Robb, why have I been raised as his brother?" he persisted. "Not even Lady Stark has tried to stop that."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" she replied, openly waspish. "He's bred into you a love and loyalty for your cousin to take advantage of the loyal and true nature you inherited from me and your real father – Brandon Stark. You will pose no danger to Robb if you think of him as a brother, and it's true, isn't it?"

"Robb is my brother!" Jon retorted, defensively. "He is my brother."

He had become genuinely riled now. Arya and Sansa his sisters; Bran his little brother. Seven hells, he thought to himself, even Theon had become like a brother, over the years, and they had no blood connection at all, pretended or otherwise. In response to his increasingly agitated tone, Lady Dustin got smartly to her feet and crossed to his side of the table.

"I think you've had enough for one day," she stated, firmly. "I'm sending you back to your chambers to think quietly for the rest of the day."

She tried to reach out to him, to take him by the arm. But he pulled away before her narrow fingers could close over his bicep. As he too got to his feet, his goblet of wine fell to the floor with a metallic clatter on the stone floor.

"Wait!" he said, taking another step back. "You said we could write to my father, Lord Stark, together. I want to do that first."

Lady Dustin's smile had become fixed and rigid. "Well, I think you have had enough-"

"You're making excuses!" he snapped back, growing much bolder now his temper was up. "You don't want me to send for my father because he'll put right the lies you're feeding me!"

As quick as a striking snake, her dark eyes flashed dangerously as she slapped him sharply across the left cheek. The sound of it rang out shrilly, leaving a searing band of pain against Jon's cheekbone as he reeled back. Suddenly afraid, he did not dare to say anything. But Lady Dustin merely drew a deep breath to steady herself, before becoming glacially composed once more. After a seconds pause, she stepped over to him and gently prised his hand from his cheek, inspecting the red mark she had left there with lips pursed. All the while, Jon watched her in saucer-eyed shock.

"I am not lying to you, Jon," she said, in calm and measured tones. "But I do understand that this is a lot for you to take in, so I will take the matter no further. All right?"

Jon hesitated, but eventually gave a jerky nod of the head. He did not agree with her, he just wanted to be away from her.

"Good boy," she replied, anger melting away again.

She took a hold of his wrist and led him up the backstairs, towards the second floor chamber she had allocated to him with a long, ageing key hanging on a ring around her wrist. He was prisoner, once more.

* * *

Catelyn closed the chamber door behind her, shutting out the noise from the rest of Winterfell. Septa Mordane had taken the girls and Bran was with Maester Luwin again and Robb confined to his chambers, with Theon for company. But she had checked on them all, smothering them with hugs and kisses before the grim business of her missing stepson pulled her away again. They were alone in their own chambers once more, where Ned sat on the end of their bed kneading his temples. The last few days had taken their strain on them all. Tempers were fraying in exhaustion and emotions broiling unpredictably. But away from the intensity of the search, she could think and speak freely once more.

"Do you believe Lord Bolton's story?" she asked, joining him on the end of the bed.

Ned didn't reply immediately, but continued massaging the tension from his brow.

"I don't know, Cat," he replied, at length.

"He said he sent a raven as soon as Jon arrived," she explained. "But we didn't get it until near two days after Jon must have arrived at the Dreadfort. Then Barbrey Dustin, who just happened to be there already – ups and walks away with Jon, and no one says a word!"

Both Northern Clans had rivalries with the Starks. The Bolton's went back centuries; Dustin, mere decades. But Catelyn could almost see the games being played, here. She was still guessing at the rules, but she knew they were being played all the same. But conveying that to Ned was another matter. He was cautious by nature and would rather round a problem in ever decreasing circles, rather than run into it head on.

"It's not an unexplainable delay though, is it?" he replied. "It's nothing definite; just a suspicion. And, Cat, I can't afford to stir up bad blood with the Boltons again. And then..." his words trailed off as he sagged forwards. "Then there's the point that we have no choice but to trust them. Barbrey Dustin will not speak to me; not after what happened in Dorne."

Catelyn sighed heavily. To give herself time to think, she got up again and began packing some belongings into another travelling case. They were not stopping at Winterfell, but following straight on to Barrowton – mercifully, close at hand. Still, they needed warm and dry cloaks, as well as clean small clothes at the very least. Then there was Jon, who would be hungry and in need of medicine, for all they knew. She worked hurriedly, throwing items into the case haphazardly as she got more and more tense about the upcoming meeting with Dustin.

"She knew Lyanna, didn't she?"

"True, but I don't think they were as close as that," replied Ned. "She was fixated more on Brandon. He was fostered there as a boy. I heard rumours, but again, nothing definite. They say he took her maidenhead. That's all."

He got up from the bed and closed the gap between them. Gently, he pressed his hands against her own, forcing her to be still. When she offered no resistance, he wrapped his arms fully around her waist, holding her close. Catelyn could feel her emotions swelling again, irritation and annoyance breaking through the dismayed numbness she had been afflicted with since the moment Ned first divulged the truth. She swayed on the spot; could have fallen had Ned not been holding her so close.

"All of this could so easily have been avoided, Ned," she said. "The last thing I want is to stand here saying, 'I told you so', but it's hard, Ned. It's so hard. This web of lies has played us all for fools and now we're in real trouble for it. Our only hope now lies in the hands of a man who would put a knife in our back if only we'd look away long enough."

She recalled what she had said about even going so far as passing Jon off as one of her own. She could have said he was Brandon's if it came to that; fathered after he slit Petyr Baelish from collar bone to naval to protect her honour, she could have given in to Brandon's advances in gratitude. But it was too late now; much too late.

"I couldn't bring you into the lie, Cat," he replied, in defence of himself. "It was more than a lie; it was treason. At least this way only I would be put to death for it. No one could accuse you of being in on it. And Jon..."

Once more, his words trailed off. But they both knew that if the truth ever came out, there would be nothing anyone could do to save Jon. Staying in Westeros would mean his death. Only fleeing to join his exiled Targaryen Aunt and Uncle could offer any hope.

"If Dustin does know," said Catelyn. "We need a plan, Ned. We can be under no illusions."

He pulled away from her, fetching a new cloak from off the bed behind them. "She doesn't know anything," he stated, flatly. "If she says she does, she's lying."

With that, the conversation ended. They returned to the forecourt, where their carriage was waiting to take them on to Barrowton. Before they climbed in, however, Catelyn looked up to the highest window of the north tower, where Robb looked down from the mullion window. She tried to smile, but effort cost more than the return so waved instead. A gesture he returned sullenly.

"We need to hurry," said Ned, spurring Catelyn on.

"I know, you're right," she replied, closing the carriage door. "No matter what you say, I am not happy about Lord Bolton negotiating with Barbrey Dustin alone. We need to catch them up."

Although the Boltons had ridden on ahead, a small party from Karhold had arrived while they were away. Lord Rickard Karstark was among them, waiting to swell the Stark numbers as they rode south to Barrowton. There were some Northern families the Starks knew they could always rely on. It was, at least, one small comfort for Ned and Cat as they started the final leg of their journey into enemy territory.

* * *

Roose Bolton made it to Barrowton well ahead of the others. He reached the curtain wall before sundown, and was ready to ride through the portcullis not long after. But he had made the long journey in a daze as he once more found himself trying to navigate the methods of his former Sister in Law. Erring to the side of his inner-monologue that now had her pegged as completely insane, he was mildly surprised to find that his entrance to her Keep was not impeded. The Guards on duty waved him through on condition that his retinue remained outside, and that he entered unarmed.

Although reluctant, he unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Ramsay. "Don't let it out of your sight," he warned his son.

Ramsay took it, but kept his eye on the Guards whose halberds still barred the portcullis. True to their word, however, they unbarred the way as soon as he was disarmed. As he rode into the grounds of the castle, he looked up at the towers and turrets for any sign of the boy. But saw nothing, beside a fleeting movement in a window on the second floor of the north tower. Wherever she was keeping him, he was well out of view. For all he knew, she could have had him fed to her hounds in a fit of rage against Ned Stark.

However, she looked more than composed when he was formally presented to her at the doorway of the Great Hall. To the right of the Hall, beneath the banners of her and her husband's houses, a great fire burned next to a table that had been set for two. The remains of a meal were still on the table; a goblet of spilled wine still on the floor. He took it all in warily as he leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks.

"I expected you sooner, Lord Bolton," said Barbey as she led up to the high table.

"I had to pacify the Starks, first," he pointed out, hands on hips as he remained standing before the table. "Barbrey, let me speak to you as your friend: what are you doing with the boy?"

She was sat in the main chair, at the centre of the table and looking up at him through narrowed eyes. Her calm composure had the opposite effect on him; it made him nervous and edgy.

"Sit down," she said, tilting her head towards the seat at her right. "And then I'll tell you."

Lord Bolton hesitated, but after a seconds delay, he did as she bid. While he moved, she plucked a folded parchment from the inside pocket of her cloak and handed it to him. Once he had unfolded it and laid it out on the table, he could see that it was a contract of marriage, between Lady Barbrey Ryswell and Brandon Stark, dated 281 AL. Taken aback, his brow raised and he looked at her quizzically. He kept a hold of the contract in his left hand, but pointed to it with his right.

"What is this?" he asked, holding it a little higher.

Barbrey merely smiled, like the cat that got the cream. "We were ever so proud when our son was born."

"Woman, what are you talking about?" he asked, growing impatient. He could see his initial assessment was right – she had finally gone insane.

"Jon of course," she replied, quite unconcerned. "Brandon and I, as you can see, were secretly married before he could be forced into a loveless union with Catelyn Tully. However, Brandon tragically died after being called to King's Landing only days after our illicit union was consummated. Just long enough to get me with child. Our son was born nine months later, just as Robert's Rebellion was at it's peak. To hide my shame, my father arranged a hasty marriage between myself and Willam Dustin. The only people who knew about Brandon's son and heir was Eddard Stark, my late father and Ser Willam. Ned took Willam to Dorne with him and had him conveniently killed; then took Jon from me under the pretence of taking him to Winterfell. Of course, I agreed, thinking it was Jon's birthright, as the new Lord of Winterfell. After which, I never saw him again until now. Naturally, I tried to get my precious son back, but Lord Stark knows I know about Lyanna and Rhaegar, and even has the proof in the form of letters found among Lyanna's possessions, found in the Tower of Joy. He's been black mailing me ever since. Really, Lord Bolton, it's easy when you think about it."

Roose looked back at her agape. "What?" he gasped, dumbly.

"You're not going to make me repeat all that, are you?" she asked. "It was hard enough telling Jon."

"You've fed this heap of horse shit to Jon?!"

"Of course. He's the most important person in all this."

Although aghast, he could see the story fit. Every bit of truth they knew from that time, she had carefully massaged to suit her own ends. But as he looked back at her while she reeled off her spiel, he could not decide whether she genuinely believed it herself or not.

"What are you trying to achieve?" he asked, keeping his tone even. "Do you think that by planting it in the boy's head that he's the real heir to Winterfell, he'll stab Lord Stark in his sleep?"

"Of course not," she replied, still unnervingly calm. "We'll do that, out in the open. Then we will have and hold Winterfell for ourselves."

Roose held up his hands. "Just wait there a minute, Barbrey. Convincing a bewildered and lost thirteen year old this is one thing; convincing the likes of Rickard Karstark is quite another. Have you let me in here just to get my backing? How has the boy reacted to all this?"

"Of course I want your backing, Lord Bolton. I can't do anything without you," she answered, truthfully. "As for Jon... well, he's confused. As is natural. But we'll give him no choice but to go along with it."

The reply froze on Roose's lips as he looked back at Barbrey in disbelief. She was using the child as nothing more than a tool for revenge and power, at least on the outside. But he looked harder at her, trying to gage whether she wanted it to be true; whether the boy was really plugging some vacant gap in her miserable life. If revenge and power was all she wanted, he could probably help her. But the emotional side made her unpredictable; unpredictability made her dangerous.

"Even if you do fool the boy into thinking he is the rightful heir to Winterfell, and your insane scheme actually works, he will want to start ruling himself in a year's time. Maybe two years, at most. He is almost a man grown, Barbrey. It may work, but not for long," he explained, patiently.

Only then did her features become animated. "But he thinks I am his mother," she stated, excitedly. "Don't you understand?"

"Which benefits you," he stated, drily.

At least she did not believe her own lies. Nevertheless, Bolton was undecided. Even if he did form a power bloc with house Dustin, they would still be out-manned by Stark supporters. Many of whom were riding on Barrowton already.

"If you had stayed put at the Dreadfort, we could have done this properly," he said, wearily. "But you ran off on your own without so much as a by your leave."

"So, you're not supporting me?" she asked, the edge wearing off her initial enthusiasm.

He sighed heavily. "I didn't say that. I just said you went about things the wrong way."

But he could not deny that the full story had been an extraordinary invention. It would actually be a gift, if only she had the sense to implement it properly. But for that moment, he needed time and space to think.

"Let me bring my men inside," he said. "I can't leave them outside all night. Then give me some time to think it over. That's the best I can do at this point."

To his relief, Lady Dustin went along with it. She rose to her feet and swept out of the Hall, a wearied look of defeat on her face. But still, he could not bring himself to dismiss her out of hand.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely. Thank you.**


	10. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. The events at the start of this chapter over-lap events at the end of the last, sorry about that.

* * *

Cooped up in the back of a carriage, Ned grew restless. A host of Bear Islanders awaited the Starks when they passed Winterfell, led by Lady Maege herself and further reinforcements were sent by the Manderlys of White Harbour. Word came that even the Umbers were sending men from the Last Hearth to join the search – more reinforcements if Dustin turned dangerously problematic. All were responding to the ravens sent by Maester Luwin the day Jon vanished. As much as he hoped these men and women at arms would not be needed, Catelyn did not have to try hard to convince him they were still a good idea.

If he leaned out of the door, he could see the host in its entirety. A sea of fluttering silk banners: the Mormont Bear and the Manderly Merman riding alongside the Stark Direwolf and a smattering of Flayed Men of Boltons that stretched back for over a mile. Surely, Dustin could not muster such a host? When he reclined back inside, he found Catelyn giving him that knowing smile.

"You want to be out there with them," she said, almost reading his mind. "You should be."

"I know," he replied. "But you'll be on your own-"

"My place is at your side."

The smile widened as she cupped his face with her hands and leaned in to kiss him. One brief, stolen moment of intimacy before they led their army together, from the front.

Although the weather had finally broken, and the sun broke through the blanket of clouds overhead, it was growing dark. The only drawback to their swelling host was that it slowed them down, but at least from the front on horseback they could feel like they were making swifter progress. But by the time they did reach the outskirts of Barrowton, they congregated in darkness. The only source of light they had came from the moon and the occasional firelight from inside people's homes. Ned knew they could not advance on Barrow Hall that night.

He gathered Catelyn, Rodrick Cassel and Maege Mormont around him as the host finally caught them up.

"We need a way in to the castle," said Ned, keeping his voice low. "Barbrey isn't going to just let me walk in there."

They were in a small town square, set away from the homes of the populace. In the centre, a small well was built on a platform of stone, so they were able to draw water for themselves and their wearying horses. A single torch flickered from the doorway of a nearby tavern – already closed up for the night.

"It may take time, but if we lay siege we could starve her out," Rodrick suggested. "Or bombard the walls."

Neither suggestion was ideal, but Ned could not bring himself to admit defeat. However, Maege Mormont drew closer to Ned's side. He noticed a hopeful glimmer in the She-Bear's blue eyes as she turned to him.

"Leave it with me, My Lord," she said, evasively. "Rest the men and horses here over night, but be at Barrow Hall by first light. Approach in silence. Approach from the South."

Before he could ask what she had in mind, she was turning away to round up her bannermen. Perplexed, Ned watched her for a minute as she rejoined her people and mounted her Destrier. Whatever her plan was, he had no choice but to trust her. In the meantime, he directed his wife and sergeant towards the empty, darkened Inn nearby. It would do for their head quarters for the time being.

"Cat," he said, catching his wife's arm before she could follow Rodrik Cassel in waking the Inn Keeper. "What was all this about again?"

He had quite forgotten. But Cat frowned at him.

"Jon," she replied. "He hasn't been seen for almost five days now."

"No, I meant why did he go in the first place?"

Even in the poor light he could see the colour stealing into her face. She sighed heavily.

"He knocked me over, Ned," she explained. "Spilled some water. He must have panicked."

Ned rolled his eyes. "Seven hells," he muttered, quietly. "All this because of some spilled water."

Cat did not deign to reply.

* * *

Jon had not been returned to the same chamber he was put in when he first arrived. This one was deeper inside the fortress and higher up. As well as a metal lock, there was also a heavy bar on the door – he had heard it being slid into place when Lady Dustin left him there, earlier that day. Inside the room itself, there was a small bed with a badly stuffed straw mattress, covered with a threadbare blanket and not much else. Only a table with uneven legs, on which he could stand to get a view out across the southern facing window. Even that wasn't much, but at least he could see over the curtain wall outside.

But it was there that he saw the flayed man banner emerge from from the smoky dusk outside. Tiny, at first, but growing larger and more substantial with a rapidity that alarmed him. At first, he tried to tell himself he was mistaken. But as more and more Bolton men emerged, those at the front of the host reached the curtain wall and Jon could not mistake Lord Bolton himself. He even raised his head as he passed under the portcullis and looked up in the direction of Jon's window. He almost fell off the table in alarm, but had to grab the ledge to keep his balance.

He could not understand why Lady Dustin's men were not attempting to fight them off, because surely they had come to take him back? The other possibility was that Lady Dustin was going to let them take him back. The thought of it alone made his stomach churn horribly and his mouth run dry with fear. He had seen the dungeons of the Dreadfort, as well as what was kept there and the skins of flayed men hanging like obscene tapestries from the dank stone walls. In a tailspin, he half jumped, half fell from the table he was stood on and hurtled himself at the barred door. He crashed into it at full speed, but it did not give. The echo of the collision faded into silence, with no sound of approaching footsteps coming from the opposite side. So he took to pounding on the door with his fists and crying out for help. But he soon succumbed to the desperate knowledge that he was alone in that tower; no one was coming.

In despair, he fell back from the door and landed on the floor with a dull thump. All he had succeeded in doing was sending up clouds of dust from the old room, choking the air and making him sneeze. Other than that, all was in silence with no sign of help coming from anywhere. Despondently, he looked all round the room. There was only the bed and the blanket, and the table that wobbled when he stood on it. There wasn't even a shelf he could take down and use as a weapon, but it would be useless against fully grown armed men, anyway. Either way, he was no longer willing to sit there and wait to be taken back to the Dreadfort or used in whatever power games Barbrey Dustin had planned for him. But as he looked around the room, his options were limited to almost zero.

Robb would have known how to get out of a situation like this, he thought to himself, bitterly. He would have been able to fight his way out, but he had not had the same level of training as his true born brother. Sniffing away a tear of frustration, he turned to look through the high window above his head, where the first rays of the full moon were beginning to relieve the gathering dusk. Maybe, he was comparing himself to the wrong brother? Bran could scale walls like a human spider. Sure footed and strong, he was more comfortable a hundred foot in the air than he was with his own two feet on solid ground. If a little boy could do, why couldn't he?

It was a desperate hope, but it was his only hope. He got back on his table, but had to stretch to his tiptoes to reach for the window handle to open it. Even then, it only lifted the latch, the window itself did not budge. With his arm extended as far as he could manage, he jumped up and thumped the glass. Once, twice and a third time managed to open it fully. He watched in grim satisfaction as it swung open, creaking on rusty hinges as it went and letting in gusts of cold air. Then, he had to make another leap upwards to catch the ledge and drag himself up. The interior walls were smoothed over with plaster, and his boots scuffed nothing more than minor indentations in the surface. Still, using both arms, he was able to scramble up to the ledge that was just about wide enough for him to sit on.

He looked down, at the sheer drop and felt the pit of his stomach plunge horribly. If he fell there would be no hope of survival. Nor could he climb downwards. The drop was too great and the way down was punctuated with other windows that he would not be able to commandeer. But if he looked up, it was only a very short distance to the crenellations of the tower, and there was a guttering pipe running the length of the tower wall to his right. All he needed to do was by pass the open window to reach that.

Cautiously, he inched to the side, clearing the window that opened outwards and closed it again. Then, his way to the metal, rusting pipe was clear. He could climb downwards using that, but the distance was much too great and his nerve was already ebbing away fast. Once more, he looked upwards and found it far preferable to looking down. Think of Bran, he told himself as he reached for the jutting bricks from the wall. He could get a footing, but only if he turned his feet to the side and went sidelong across the wall. With his bare hands, he had to dig his nails into the mortar, but it was the only way he could get a proper hold. Only once he was certain of his footing did he ease himself slowly down from the ledge. But once free of his final solid perch, he could feel the open drop below him. A brisk wind swept over him, making his stomach flip and his mouth water, like he was going to be sick. His heart rate raced. But he remained still, forcing his mind to be blank as he made his first move towards the piping, cursing Bran for making it look so deceptively easy as he went.

Slowly, he eased his foot from one jutting block to the next. His hands soon grew so cold that they were numb, and his fingers bled where they chaffed against the rough brick. Every so often, he accidentally glanced downwards and made his stomach heave. But he could see that the Bolton host was slowly moving within the Castle walls. They looked as small as ants from his vantage point, and they were all holding tiny pin-pricks of light. There was definitely no fight going on, but Jon had to focus on moving across the wall, to the guttering pipe that ran the length of the crenellations. As soon he did reach it, he clung to it for dear life and sent up a silent prayer to the Old Gods that it didn't lead from the castle privies.

From there, his journey was upwards. It was only six feet up, but it felt like six miles. A slow crawl up the side of the building, until he was able to reach up and grasp the edge of the crenellations between two jutting merlons. Once he had a sure grip, he grasped firmly and hauled himself up with a grunt of effort. So close to the end of his exertions, he rushed and surged upwards, almost loosing his footing and leaving his left leg hanging over a sheer drop. He almost cried out in shock, but already he had tipped his body over the wall and rolled breathlessly on to the battlements. Breathless and dazed, he lay on his back and looked up at the sky with burning eyes as he struggled to regain his breath.

* * *

Once the Bolton host was safely within the Castle, Lord Bolton returned to the Great Hall, finding Lady Dustin warming herself by the fire. Her face, in profile, was made golden skinned by the light of the flames that lapped lazily around blackening firewood. The smell of the smoke pungent on the air where it failed to funnel up the chimney properly. It made his eyes redden and water.

"Tell me, Lady Barbrey, how did the boy react to your story?" he asked, curiously.

She did not turn from the fire as she replied.

"He is somewhat... recalcitrant. He is in his new chamber thinking things through."

Chilled from having been outside, Roose took a step closer to the Lady and the fire. The story she had reeled off the top of her head had been a truly remarkable one, he couldn't deny that. Everything fit, perfectly. Except for the fact that she had had to increase the boy's real age by a year. But even that made him older than Robb, increasing his claim to Winterfell had he really been a trueborn son of Brandon Stark. If they had worked on it together, they could have made it watertight. But she had absconded, taking the boy with her.

"You say you want to ally with my house, but you ran off with Jon Snow instead of taking the time to plan this with me. How am I to trust you?" he asked.

Then she turned to look at him. Her shrewd eyes narrowed.

"When I was at the Dreadfort, you sent for the Starks to come and fetch the boy before we could plan so much as a piss up in a doss house," she pointed, sharply. "How can I trust you after you turned tail to my enemies so easily?"

Touché, he thought to himself as he extended his colds hands towards the fire.

"I'm here now, aren't I?" he asked, rhetorically. "Do you see the Starks?"

Lady Dustin laughed drily. "I wasn't born yesterday, Lord Bolton. They're not far behind you."

"But my men are inside this castle, are they not?" he pointed out, eyes fixed on the burning logs in the hearth. "The Starks are amassing a small host and I left some of my men with them. But I can afford to lose a few. While we're in here, we can out up a fight."

The Starks were not prepared for a siege. If the Bolton host remained inside, they could defend Barrow Hall from within, preventing Stark forces from entering. They would be forced to retreat before long, if only to rearm themselves. Even if the retreat was temporary, it still bought he and Barbrey precious time to make their plan watertight. With Jon under lock and key and at their mercy, the Starks would even be reluctant to launch much of an attack to begin with. Either way, Roose knew all was not lost for her.

"I need time and space," he declared, stepping back from the fire. "If you excuse me, I think I'll retire for now."

"Of course," she replied, shadowing him. "Maester Wyllys will show you to your chamber. You know I always have rooms ready for you."

Roose raised a pallid smile. "Thank you. Be sure to secure the drawbridge and portcullis. I don't want anyone else entering the keep tonight."

With that, he withdrew as the elderly Maester stepped out from the shadows to escort him away.

* * *

Barbrey watched him as he went, waiting until he had vanished before sweeping out of the room. Outside, the cold air greeted her like a slap in the face. Bolton men leered at her from the guest houses in the grounds of her Keep, but she ignored them as she walked past. Her stride did not break until she reached the curtain wall. Already, the posturn gate out of which Jon had been trying to escape earlier that day had been secured. Guards armed with halberds stood either side of it, so she continued on her way to the drawbridge.

She found the drawbridge still still lowered, offering a safe crossing over the wide, protective moat that ran fully around the castle. But the portcullis was down, barring entry to the castle itself. There she found one of her guards remonstrating with a woman who was roughly the same size as one of her horses, and equally powerfully built. Barbrey paused, recognition slow in coming. Only when she drew closer did she recognise Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.

"Lady Mormont," Barbrey greeted the woman. "Did Lord Stark send you?"

Mormont stepped up to the portcullis and spoke through the iron lattice bars.

"He did not, Lady Dustin. I told him to send me," she replied.

Barbrey noted, with distaste, the way the woman's wild shaggy hair fell thick about her shoulders. It was like it hadn't seen a comb in decades – if at all.

"And you expect me to just let you in here?" she asked, wrinkling her long nose.

If Maege noticed the other woman's distaste, she did not let on.

"I just need a moment of your time, my lady," she replied. "True, my house is sworn to Stark. But after what Lord Eddard did to my brother, my sword is anyone's who dares to stand against them Starks – over-mighty as they are."

Barbrey pulled herself up sharp, stepping closer to the portcullis to see the other woman better. Behind her, she could see a host of Bear Islanders, all armed.

"Your brother, Jorah Mormont, the slaver?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

Lady Maege nodded. "Stark would have had his head if my daughter and I had not smuggled him away."

That was true, she remembered it. Jorah was an ass, they all knew that. But that was no excuse for Ned Stark to deprive another woman of her menfolk. It was a habit of Stark's. Her Willam had been disposed of, and so too had he done it to the Mormonts. While she mulled it over, Maege Mormont had withdrawn her own sword, the deadly blade glimmering in the moonlight.

"My sword is yours, my lady," she said. "Let me and my host inside and we will fight for you."

Still dubious, Lady Dustin still did not give the order for the portcullis to be raised.

"Where are the Starks now?" she asked, so close to the portcullis the tip of her nose almost touched the cold steel.

"Forty miles north of here – that's where I told Ned Stark to begin his advance on Barrow Hall," she replied. "Two days ride away, at the very least. You should send scouts searching north for them, that might give you better indication."

Becoming increasingly confident, Lady Dustin nodded to the guards to let the lady in. As soon as the portcullis was raise, the whole of the Bear Island host assembled seamlessly. But Barbrey drew Lady Maege aside.

"You must come into the castle and rest, my lady, your men – and your women, by the looks of it – must be exhausted."

Barbrey had never seen such a host in her life, but she supposed they must do things differently on Bear Island. However, Lady Mormont seemed reluctant.

"If it's all the same my lady, I'll stay with my men out here. We Bear Islanders stick together," she replied, beaming brightly.

They had so much in common, that Lady Dustin was almost disappointed. Still, she knew better than to gainsay military strategists that were far better than her. She had never been taught such things and had no choice but to place her trust in the hands of others. Besides, if the Bear Islanders tried anything, the Boltons would make light work of them.

* * *

Still weary and trembling after his exertions, Jon slowly pulled himself to his feet. From up on the battlements, he had the run of the castle roof. But no way down. Every so often, he had to dodge guards on sentry duty on the ramparts, but otherwise he had free run. But no shelter. Up high, it was bitterly cold and the wind cut him to the bone.

After a long time spent looking down from the crenellations, watching over the bustling castle and wondering what was going on, he moved off to seek shelter. Each turret and tower was accessible from the battlements he found himself on, but each seemed to guarded. Only the one facing south was unguarded, and that led down into the servants quarters. No matter where it went, it would be dangerous. If he was caught, he would be returned to Lady Dustin and wherever she kept him next, it would be even worse than the last.

Nevertheless, he ducked through the open doorway and into the dark alcove on the other side. There were no beacons or torches lit on the cold, stone stairwell on the other side. He couldn't even see the stairwell itself, leading back down into the castle. But it was a shelter, where he could wait until it was safe to make his next move.

* * *

They set out before dawn. Ned and Catelyn at the head of a small band of men, with another host soon to follow. By the time they reached the foot of the steep hill that led to Barrow Hall, a thin ray of sunlight was just beginning to dispel the darkness. They all clung to each other, travelling in a tight huddle in an effort to minimise the noise they made. If they had to converse, they did so in a low whisper.

Ned had done this in battle before. If it worked, it was the element of surprise that gave them the advantage over their enemy. But they did not even know whether Lady Maege had made it safely inside Barrow Hall, meaning all this could still be for nothing. Inwardly, Ned was bracing himself to see Lady Mormont's head on a spike outside the gates.

"Any idea how she was planning on getting inside?" asked Catelyn, keeping her voice down.

Ned could guess, but he left it unvoiced. "No, but we have to come here anyway. Might as well do it by stealth."

Naturally, no one had brought any burning torches with them. But the dawn was advancing, meaning they could finally see well enough. By the time they made it to the curtain walls of Barrow Hall, it was almost sunrise proper. But Ned could not hear anything besides his men taking up position along the walls. They still moved gradually, all assembling along the southern gates. If he looked up at the high walls, there did not seem to be any guards on duty either. But he could see the Bolton standard still fluttering in the yard.

"They have turned on us," he whispered in Catelyn's ear.

Slowly, she turned to face him. "I could have told you that. But where in seven hells is Lady Maege?"

The drawbridge was still up, and all other entrances sealed. However, not long after they arrived, there came a muffled shout and a grunt, quickly followed by another. Then Ned stood back and watched as the drawbridge slowly lowered, revealing Maege Mormont standing there, waiting for them with a bright beam on her face. Once it was down, she even used her sword to cut the winch ropes, meaning the drawbridge could not be raised again. Just to the side, two dead guards were slumped against the pillars with their throats cut. Already, the castle was as good as taken.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute. Thanks again!**


	11. Winter Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you! After this chapter, there is only a prologue left to go, in which all loose ends will be tied up. Hopefully, it will be written within a day or two. Thanks again.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Winter Arrives**

Jon's eyelids slowly fluttered open. In the twilight zone between sleep and the living world, he struggled to get his bearings. All he was aware of was the bitter cold, the poor light and the steel sword blade trained on his throat. Full of dull incomprehension, he lifted his gaze to where the Guards were standing over him, still as stone statues as they eyed their cornered prey. Waking up fully in the blink of an eye, he tried to shuffle back towards the wall he had been slumped against. But the blade followed him, the guards almost smiling as they toyed with him.

"Shall we kill 'im now, or later?" the one with the sword asked.

The second was just beyond Jon's visual periphery. Unarmed, he had no means of self-defence.

"No, please, take me to Lady Dustin-" he began, just as the point of the sword nicked the delicate skin at the base of his throat. But the guard suddenly dropped the sword and rough hands grabbed Jon under the armpits and hauled him to his feet.

"Come on then, let's get him back to the Mistress," one of them sighed.

With no other option but to comply, Jon's heart raced as they began marching him down a steep, twisting flight of spiral steps. He remembered the night before, when he climbed the wall; now his knees were bruised and his hands aching as the injuries had had time to set in and blossom. But he still sought endless, desperate ways to run from his captors. But where he would go, he could not think. The whole place would be crawling with guards who would just do as these were doing: marching him straight back to Lady Dustin.

Even if his pace slackened, or if he stumbled, a hard and gauntleted hand smacked him in the middle of his back to keep him moving. When they finally emerged on the ground floor, two of the men moved to stand either side of him, flanking him and cutting off those potential escape routes. Worse still, he was still too disorientated to even keep track of where he had been and the route they were taking. But, if he strained his ears, he could hear the sounds of a distant commotion – raised voices and running feet from the floor above their heads. He looked up sharply, craning his neck, but he inadvertently slowed, bringing another smack from the guard behind him.

"Ouch!" he grunted, rubbing at his back as he was shoved forwards again.

"Then keep moving, boy!"

The rebuke focused his mind while the sounds from outside grew more audible. A bell began to toll, drawing comment from the guards. But it seemed delivering Jon took precedence over anything else that may be happening inside the castle. Eventually, after a few more minutes of being frog-marched through galleries and passage ways, he came to the all too familiar Great Hall, where Lady Dustin stood alongside Roose Bolton on the dais. Although Lord Bolton seemed highly indifferent to his arrival, Lady Dustin fixed him with a sharp-eyed look of cold fury as he was forced to kneel in front of her. His knees hit the floor with a sharp ache as Dustin's footsteps rang sharply on the floorboards as she approached him.

"Who let him out of his chamber?" she demanded, all maternal affection gone from her tone.

Jon kept his head down, thick dark curls falling in his eyes as he made a desperate attempt to play the sympathy card. Feigning a sniffle, as though he were crying, he went to plead for mercy. But any sound he made was cut off by the doors leading to the keep were flung open with a bang.

"We're under attack!"

A man's panicked voice cut across the hall, drawing the eyes of everyone. Lord Bolton swung fluidly into action, drawing his sword as he went. The sounds from outside were deafening loud with the doors open, but Jon could not see what was happening. He sent up silent prayers to the old gods and the new that it was his father, come to rescue him with a host from Winterfell. But he didn't dare taken anything for granted after the last few days.

As the room suddenly emptied as the guards rushed to join the fray outside, only Lady Dustin remained. Panic in her eyes as she continued to look at him, dumbfounded. Without wasting another moment, Jon launched himself forwards and made a blind run for the door he had just come through.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Lady Dustin's voice followed him as he fled. He could hear her heels slamming against the stone floor as she gave chase. But he rounded every corner he came to, running blind away from the chaos in the courtyard, as well as the maddened woman giving chase.

* * *

Useless with a sword in her hand, Catelyn had been forced to remain well away from the danger zone inside the walls of Barrow Hall. Before leading his men into the battle, Ned had given her one last, rough kiss on the lips and implored her to remain with the horses tethered by the moat. But the sounds of the fight, the raised voices soon joined by the panicked tolling of the bells sent her nerves scattering. She paced in a wide circle, casting worried glances towards the curtain wall. But being able to see nothing only served to give her imagination free reign. The only way to distract herself came when reinforcements arrived and she directed them to the fight inside. Other than that, she paced and chewed on her nails as she envisioned Ned dying a multitude of horrific deaths.

Before long, her own imagination got the better of her. She tried to retreat further downhill, where she hoped the terrible noise of the fight might not be so audible. But before she could go too far, archers began manning the walls and starting loosing arrows on those arriving at the scene to join the Starks. She could just see them, silhouetted against the morning sky, loosing volley after volley of arrows down upon her own bannermen.

"Seven Hells!" she cursed.

Hitching up her skirts, she scrambled back to the lip of the hill and hugged close to the stone wall, where the enemy archers would not see her. She sidestepped all the way to the posturn gate that led into the fight itself. All around her was confusion as the two armies clashed. Weaving and bobbing her way through the throngs of fighting men, she directed herself towards the Castle itself. There was no hope of getting anyone's attention among the chaos, so she kept dodging fallen men and deafening herself to the shouts of the injured and dying.

 _Just keep walking_ , she urged herself over and over. She kept her head down, well out of the way of any swinging swords and, at one point, hiding behind a knight in full armour as another volley of arrows flew overhead from enemy archers positioned on the battlements high above her. Before reaching the castle itself, she tripped over the corpse of a slain knight with a Stark Direwolf bannerette tied to his upper-arm. But there was nothing she could do for him now except stifle the tears that welled in her eyes and keep pressing onwards.

When she did make it to the Castle, she threw herself through the open doors and slammed them shut to drown out the noise of the battle outside. Breathless, but relieved, she found herself looking around a deserted Great Hall. After the noise levels outside, the sudden silence – broken only by the muffled battle sounds outside – seemed oppressive and threatening.

"Lady Dustin!" she called out, not in the least afraid any more. "Barbrey Dustin!"

Her voice echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling, but no answer came. Nothing at all stirred inside. The high table was still set for breakfast, but it looked as though even the domestic servants had been ordered outside to fight. She hesitated for a moment, before opening the door again. If the Stark forces were going to take this castle, she wanted their entry to be as smooth as possible. But once done, she did not tarry longer. Turning from the scene of carnage outside, she made her way through the back of the Castle and up to one of the towers. From there, she could watch what was happening in relative safety from a window on the landing of the first floor. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Ned, still mounted on a great Destrier, cutting a path easily through enemy forces.

Closer to the castle was Lady Maege Mormont, splattered with enemy blood and mounted on a huge war horse, her young daughter Dacey at her side and proving herself to be as formidable as her mother. The wood vert and bear sable now flying high, Here We Stand, they declared; while the Stark banners brought the promise of Winter is Coming. But her real, unspoken question, was not answered. Where are the Boltons? She could see the banner of the flayed man but it was impossible for her to tell on whose side they were fighting. They seemed to be all over the place: some directed towards the castle, fighting the Barrowton men, while most seemed to be fighting towards the gates and beating back the invaders. She searched among them for sign of Lord Bolton, but flinched back from the window as the body of an archer plummeted past it on the outside. He must have been shot down from the ramparts.

Gasping in shock, she spun round and prepared to flee the tower in case the archers manning the battlements began to flee her way. She needed to get to Jon, but she had never been to Barrowton and had no idea where he would even be kept. But before she could even plan that, her name was called from below.

"Lady Stark! Lady Stark!"

She didn't think anyone had noticed her entrance into the castle.

"Lady Stark!"

The voice came again, sounding more familiar this time.

"Dacey?" Cat called back.

"Down here!" she called back.

Catelyn rushed down the stone steps to meet her, where she was searching the Great Hall. Like her mother, she was spattered head to toe with the blood of their enemies.

"Good news, m'lady, we're beginning to break through enemy lines," she panted, breathlessly. "Lord Stark saw you coming in here and sent message for me to guard you."

Cat breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank the Gods," she replied, embracing Dacey despite her dishevelled state.

Also like her mother, Dacey was growing to be a bear of a woman. Strong and powerfully built to match. Her brown hair cut boyishly short and wearing a chain mail hauberk that fell to her knees. Catelyn guided her away from the Hall that would soon be filled with people from one side or the other, and into the servants stairwell where they could speak.

"The Barrowton troops were not expecting a southern attack," Dacey explained without prompting. "My Mother told them we would be attacking from the North, so that's where their troops were stationed. Then she cut the ropes of the drawbridge, making the fortress vulnerable."

But there was one thing Catelyn was still unsure of. "But how?"

Dacey grinned. "She told them she was turning coat because of what happened to her nephew, Jorah. Even fed Dustin some horse shit story about him being her dear brother to give it that extra familial feel."

Catelyn was just grateful that it worked. "We cannot thank you enough. Now can you help me search the castle? I haven't seen indication of Jon anywhere."

Dacey replied with a nod, before turning towards the nearest turret arch. At least searching for Jon kept Cat's mind off Ned.

* * *

With no way out, Jon could only think to go up. He took the steps three at a time; ignoring the ever growing ache in his legs as he went. Not daring to look back over his shoulder, he braced himself to feel Barbrey's claws grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him to the ground at any minute. Every door he came to ended only in a closed chamber, forcing him ever upwards until he emerged back on the open battlements.

It had begun to rain by the time he made it back outside. He threw himself down behind a jutting support pillar, allowing himself the luxury of some time to recover. Although hidden from view, arrows were sailing up to the battlements where he hid, putting him at risk. So as soon as he was able, he tried to move again. Belly crawling along the cold, wet stones over the sloping roofs and avoiding Dustin's men who now lined the merlons, firing on the invaders. He crawled to the northern ramparts, away from the archers before they could notice he was there.

Forced to get up on his feet, he made as quick progress as he could, leaping low walls that separated the wings castle and the transepts that led north. The attack was coming from the South, meaning for all he knew this could be nothing more than an Iron Born raid and not a rescue party from Winterfell. He did not dare look over the southern battlements to find out. Down there, the rain would be mixing with the compacted snow to form a lethal slippery mush, impeding whoever was attacking no matter who it was.

By the time he finally reached a place of relative safety, he fell to the floor and huddled under the low wall of the castle ramparts. Whatever was happening, it would end soon and he could hide and flee. No one would search for him on the roof. Except Lady Dustin, who was right behind him. Slowly, he drew himself up to a sitting position, realising he had no distance left to run.

"What do you want from me?" he asked her, breathlessly.

The chase through the castle had torn her skirts and one of her heeled boots had somehow fallen off. Her normally immaculately sculpted hair was falling out of its high bun, framing her face in tatty curls. Even the lacing of her bodice had come loose. She closed in on Jon, holding out her hand towards him.

"Come with me, child," she said, ignoring his question. "I told you the truth, didn't I? I am your mother and Brandon was your father."

He believed her, but only because he had wanted to believe her. Slowly, he drew himself to his full height, so he could look at her properly. The sounds of the battle still raging far below them reached him in muffled waves, carried on the brisk rain-swept wind. He smiled, despite his fear. And even that fear was beginning to ebb away, now that they were alone.

"That night you came to me at the Dreadfort," he said, between laboured breaths. "You said I was lying about being Jon Snow. Do you remember? You didn't recognise me at all. If you were really my mother..."

The question tailed off, the rest of the sentence left hanging unspoken between them. Barbrey shook her head.

"I was emotional," she replied. "I did not know what I was saying, Jon. You are my son-"

"Lies!" he shouted over her, backing away. "You looked at me again after saying I was lying about being Jon Snow. Then you said the name "Brandon". I thought you were talking about my brother, but you meant my Uncle. You concocted this plan there and then, didn't you?"

"That's not true!" Lady Dustin called back, shrilly. She advanced on him, with her hand outstretched. "Please, child, we must talk-"

But Jon was done with talking. "You've said too much already and you cannot have me!"

He turned and ran again, but Lady Dustin launched herself at him, wrestling him to the ground. Struggling violently, he tried to wriggle out from beneath her, but she was digging her nails in hard. Rain lashed down on them both, making Jon squint as he looked past her to the skies and heaved her off him. Once free, he scrambled up to the sloping roof topped with a water spewing gargoyle, where he could finally see out over the southern forecourt. Hundreds, maybe thousands of fighting men, in a melee awash with the banners of House Stark. Jon's heart leapt into his throat as he saw the fluttering silk Direwolves.

"Father; my father!" he whispered, clinging to the gargoyle to stop himself from plummeting downwards. "Winter is coming."

Knowing that Dustin was advancing on him, he also knew there was little she could do to him now. He inched backwards, sliding back down the sloping roof. But Dustin charged at him once again, bending his spine painfully over the battlements as her scream of rage rent the air. She made a grab for his sopping wet hair to drag him back towards her, but he pushed her away violently. It all happened so fast, he barely had time to register it, but she rolled over the low wall, between the merlons, nails gripping the edge to prevent her plunging to the ground, hundreds of feet below. She swung dangerously, though, her hands losing their perilous grip on the edge of the battlement.

Horrified, Jon hesitated before bracing his knee between the merlons and hold out his hands.

"Take my hands," he shouted. "I can pull you up!"

He would not have her death on his conscience. But she did not move, nor saying anything, except for looking at him through dark, narrowed eyes. There was blood seeping from under her nails now, but still she did not move. He lowered his hand further, using his other hand to grip the corner of the merlon and preventing his own fall.

"Take my hand, unless you want to die!" he snapped at her, angrily.

Finally, cautiously, she took his hand. Before he could pull her up, however, she tried to pull him down.

"You're coming down with me," she hissed between clenched teeth.

Gripping the edge of the merlon tight, he was able to resist the pull. But she had a grip on his wrist and he was edging further toward the edge, and over-balancing himself. Her sharp nails dug into his pale, wet flesh, leaving livid red tracks as she slipped from his grasp and plunged to the earth, far below them. Jon reeled backwards, back to the safety of the battlements just as Lady Dustin's body hit the ground with a sickening crunch that he could not hear.

* * *

Catelyn and Dacey charged through the galleries and passageways blindly, calling out to Jon as they went. No longer caring who heard them, they didn't stop anywhere. But each chamber they came to was empty, save for one being looted by Lady Dustin's own servants. One man was just about the stuff a solid gold chalice into a roughspun sack.

"Where's the boy?" demanded Dacey, drawing her blood smeared sword and training it on the man.

He backed away, wide-eyed and fearful. "There was one boy being lodged on the second floor, but I know not where he is now. North tower, it was."

"Leave him, Dacey," said Catelyn. "We can see how far his loyalty extends, I don't think he would lie for his Mistress."

Dacey obeyed immediately, before turning back to Catelyn. "To the north tower, then?"

Cat nodded, before leading the way back to the entrance of the chamber they were in, leaving the servants to their looting. But, when they went to vacate, Roose Bolton suddenly stepped out, blocking their exit. He eyed them both coldly, his grey eyes raking over them both. His tunic was covered in blood, where he had been out fighting for a side Catelyn could not tell.

"Lady Stark," he said, by way of greeting. He drew his sword on her, aiming it seemingly at both her and Dacey. "How strange to see you here."

"I could say the same about you, Lord Bolton," she replied. "Why are you not outside supporting my husband?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then, not to be outdone, Dacey trained her own blade on Bolton and stepped protectively in front of Catelyn. The younger woman scowled at him.

"I would be grateful, my lord, if you would withdraw your sword when speaking to my Mistress."

Quick as an adder, he struck out at Dacey who parried the lunge easily. Catelyn's heart raced as she leapt clear of the fight. Even the looting servants had fled now, abandoning some of their stolen goods in the process. Catelyn grabbed at a heavily gemmed golden goblet embossed with Ser Willam Dustin's arms and clutched at it as the sword fight continued. The air was filled with the grating sound of steel on steel as their swords clashed. Lunges blocked and parried with ease, before Lord Bolton aimed for Dacey's throat. Once more, she blocked him but their blades met and stuck as he bore down on her, forcing her to her knees.

"Oh no, you don't!" Catelyn called, rushing up to Bolton and hitting him as hard as possible with the goblet.

It broke the deadlock, giving Dacey a split second to get back on her feet while he was still dazed from Cat's blow with the goblet.

"Get behind me, Lady Stark!"

Dacey's voice rang out as she swung her deadly blade straight at Bolton's throat. Cat only just managed to get out of the way as the blade hit it's target, opening the Lord's throat with a gargled scream as he choked on his own spraying blood. Dacey lunged again, with an animal roar of effort as she plunged her blade straight into the fallen man's heart.

Catelyn was still too dazed and bewildered to react. She tottered dangerously, clutching at her slender neck as though she were struggling for breath.

"What in seven hells was he playing at?" she eventually choked out, coming to a rest by the back wall.

Dacey had sunk exhausted to her knees. But she was quite composed once more, as she turned her eyes to Catelyn.

"He wanted to take you hostage, using you to halt the Stark advance," she said, clearly extrapolating. Then, a grin spread over her broad face. "Which means we must have won!"

Catelyn gasped, a rush of a sigh of relief as she too sank to her knees. "Thank the Gods!"

Although, she knew they had not really won until they had Jon safely back in their care and she knew that her husband was alive and well. For all she knew, Ned could have fallen in the battle. Still, she allowed herself a minute to recover.

* * *

The rain was falling harder and harder, turning the snow to mush and churning the ground to a swamp. Ned's horse sank into it, slowing their progress as they rounded up the last of the enemy. Already, the Stark and Mormont hosts had broken the Castle and stormed the Keep. But there was still no sign of either Jon or Cat anywhere.

Digging his spurs into the flanks of his horse, he broke into a trudging canter as he rode once more through the Castle grounds. The animal had to leap over the bodies of the fallen, then a low wall that ringed a wide pond that was beginning to thaw in the pummelling rain. Impeding his vision was the driving rain; it made him squint and grimace as he rode once and then twice around the circumference of the castle walls.

For all he knew, they killed Jon as soon as they realised they were under attack. He could be anywhere inside, and that was what Ned tried to keep telling himself. There was already a search party inside, scouring for his wife and son. After a third lap of the castle grounds, he came to a halt by the drawbridge and led the beast outside, to get a drink from the moat. Jon was dead, it was becoming clear to him. He had lost his child. The boy he regarded as his child; his chosen child. It scarcely mattered to him that he had failed Lyanna now. He had failed Jon. Failed to protect him; to keep him safe.

At the edge of the moat, he drew Ice from its sheaf and dipped it in the murky waters of the moat, cleaning the Valyrian steel blade of the blood of his foe. Kneeling at the water's edge, he used his free hand to knead at his brow, subduing the swelling emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him. If the child was dead -

There, he cut his thoughts off. But his hands shook as he withdrew Ice from the waters and sheathed it once more. Beyond the castle walls, he could hear the stragglers still parading round the forecourts, hollering and cheering their victory. His tears for Jon were lost among the rain as he turned and walked back to his horse, as it lapped at the water. There, he fixed the bridle, anything to distract himself from the thoughts in his head.

"Father!"

He didn't hear the boy's voice, at first. He thought he had imagined it; hearing what he wanted to hear. But then it came again.

"Father!"

He turned toward the source of the noise, where a soaked and bedraggled Jon was running at full pelt through the driving rain, sending up splashes of dirty water in his wake. His arms were flung open, sprinting straight towards him. Barely able to believe what he was seeing, Ned dropped the horse's reins and started to run towards his son. His son, whether by blood or not.

"Jon!" Ned cried out as the two met half way.

Jon leapt into Ned's open arms, wrapping his own arms around his neck hugging him so tight Ned thought he might not let go again. There, he sobbed noisily into Ned's shoulder.

"Father!" he said again, but could manage no more.

Ned clung to him just as tightly, not loosening his hold on the shaking, sobbing child for a moment. All the while, he made comforting noises, rubbing his back until he settled, slowly calming down again.

"It's over now," Ned assured him. "You're safe."

Ned opened his eyes, slowly relinquishing his grip on Jon to get a proper look at him. But movement over Jon's shoulder caught his eye. On the lowered drawbridge, Cately stood with shoulders slumped, smiling at him with tears running down her face. She staggered towards him, not caring about her skirts soaking up the wet mud as she went. Ned released one arm as she approached, bringing her into their three way hug. She kissed them both, drawing a look of quiet surprise from Jon. There, they remained for a length of time Ned did not even try to keep track of.

* * *

**Apologies for getting Jorah's relationship to Maege wrong in the last chapter – the mistake was genuinely my own. But I tried to recover it with some grace by working it into the plot of this chapter.**

**Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute. Thanks again for reading.**


	12. The Inescapable Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First up, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it really means a lot. 
> 
> I probably should have mentioned this sooner. Although this is mostly book based, I've stuck with the actors in the show for character descriptions. Mostly because I thought that would be how most readers now imagine them.
> 
> Finally, apologies for the fluff levels in this chapter. I wanted to lighten the tone a little now it's drawing to a close.

 

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: The Inescapable Truth.**

Part of Jon expected Winterfell to look different upon his return. He could not quite place it; less still explain it. But it all looked reassuringly the same, at least on the surface. Wriggling from beneath his father's arms, he leaned out of the window of the carriage to watch as the Castle grew larger on the horizon. He couldn't bring himself to look away until they crossed the drawbridge and the familiar sights and smells surrounded him once more. From the hammering of Mikken's forge, to the silent Godswood, the sap-weeping Weirwood and the Broken Tower; it all felt like being enclosed in a sorely missed filial embrace. It was not Winterfell that had changed, it was he himself. This was his home, and his brothers and sisters, even Sansa, came rushing across the courtyard to welcome him back. Arya wrapped her scrawny arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life, while even Theon shook his hand – somewhat stand-offish, as ever.

After the welcome committee, he was sent to the bath house for a much needed wash while the cooks prepared a big feed for them all. There, he slipped beneath the hot water and immersed himself fully to scrub the accumulated dirt from his hair and skin. While there, he was free to think things over without having to worry about other people. No Roose Bolton to sell him on like cattle; no Barbrey Dustin to use him like a toy soldier to push into power games. Nor even his father, who had insisted – no matter how distressed he became – to divulge every detail that woman had told him. All he wanted to do was forget, but Lord Stark asked question after question. Even Lady Stark had tried to step in, procuring a blanket from a hamper and making comforting noises about him being allowed to sleep.

If he had changed, so had Lady Stark. The look of contempt had gone from her eyes whenever she looked at him. She had kissed him, when first he was reunited with his father. But he put that down to his father having given her a hard time over his disappearance. He was certain she would be back to her contemptuous self before long. But the story he had told, of how Lady Dustin had described bother her, as well as his parentage, had left Lady Stark dazed. As far as Jon was concerned, it scarcely mattered who Brandon thought he was marrying, since he was dead. But Lady Stark knew him, after all; she knew Lady Dustin was lying.

Jon remained in the water until he was scrubbed pink and shrivelled like a prune left in the blazing sun. All the aches and pains had been soothed away, leaving him leaden and sleepy as he dried himself off, and he had never been more grateful for clean clothes than he was at that moment. Before leaving the chamber, he took a moment to relish the soft, clean fabric and vowed never to take such things for granted again.

Outside, his father was waiting to take him down to the Great Hall, where the family would be eating. But before they went anywhere, Lord Stark dropped to his haunches, so that they were level with each other. For a long moment, he looked Jon in the eye, brushing the damp hair from his eyes.

"Do you understand why I made you talk in the carriage?" asked his father.

Actually, he didn't. "I think so."

"I'll take that as a no, then."

Jon blushed. "No, father."

But his father smiled, kindly.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he assured Jon. "It's just, you would start to forget details, especially once you were back with your brothers and sisters. We needed to know exactly what she told you and it's always best you get it out your system as soon as possible. Don't you think?"

Jon's frown melted away. He had not thought of it that way. Now he really was free to forget that dreadful woman and her horrible hair, and the way her body slammed into the ground.

"I understand now," replied Jon. "But why does it matter? Everything she told me was a lie, wasn't it? She's not my mother and Uncle Brandon was not my father."

Ned almost laughed. "That is nonsense, Jon. Utter horse -" he cut himself off there, but Jon knew what he was going to say. "She took advantage of your weak spot and used it to manipulate you into doing things she wanted – taking revenge against me."

He felt foolish for the few hours in which he had believed what Barbrey Dustin had told him. His father was right, he had let himself be used; made himself vulnerable.

"I'm sorry-" he began.

"Don't be!" Ned cut over him. "None of this is your fault. The fault is with Roose Bolton and Barbrey Dustin. They were both adults taking advantage. They died in utmost dishonour."

Jon merely raised a pained smile. He had already vowed to plug his weak spot.

"Well, I've decided it doesn't matter who my mother was," he declared.

He thought it would please his father, but his expression fell and his brow tightened into a frown.

"We'll see," he replied, mutedly. "Now let's go to dinner. Your brothers are itching for account of the battle."

Just before he left for his bath, Jon had taken a silent and satisfied pleasure at the fleeting look of envy in Robb's eye as he heard about the battle. Robb jealous of him, Jon. It made a change! Meanwhile, his father had his arms open. Jon hastily glanced round the corridors, seeing if anyone was around.

"No one will see, boy!" Ned laughed.

"Oh, go on then," he ceded, and returned his father's hug.

* * *

"He still needs to be told, Ned." Catelyn kept her tone even as she made her point. She did not expect him to blurt out the truth the second they walked through the doors of Winterfell. But she recognised the early stages of Ned's resolve weakening. Already he was beginning to defer and procrastinate. First, it was to let him bathe; then to let Jon eat and now, it was let him get a good night's sleep. She wondered what tomorrow's excuse would be.

She looked to the lower table, where their children ate not far away. Robb and Theon were grilling Jon for details of the battle, which he returned with an enthusiastic blow by blow account with a gusto that compensated for the look of fear in his dark eyes. She couldn't help but smile indulgently as Robb retorted with his version of what he would have done in that situation. In reality, she dreaded the day that Robb would have to make good on his boyish bluster.

"It's all about timing, Cat," Ned reiterated as he topped up their glasses with golden wine. "The boy's exhausted. Just let him have one more good night's sleep before the burden falls."

And what a burden it was. How could they tell Jon that he was as good as a Prince while impressing upon him the dangers of his station? Would a boy of his age be able to resist bragging? He was a grave and melancholy child, even at the best of times. Not the type to run at the mouth or lord it over others. With all the what-ifs in mind, Catelyn ceded Ned's final delay and quietly gave way to Jon's good night's sleep. It may be the final peaceful sleep he ever has.

Over on the other table, the battle walk-through continued and the noise levels rose. Arya got to her feet and scrambled onto a vacant table, where she allowed Jon to direct her through an interesting re-enactment of Lady Dustin falling to her death – to the raucous amusement of her watching siblings. Even Ned snorted with laughter as Arya's exaggerated squeal of distress rent the air. Catelyn was about to tell them to pipe down, when Ned urged her to let them play. Besides, Jon returned to his dinner and they settled quite naturally as pudding took precedence over noisy chatter. Catelyn smiled as Sansa offered Jon a tray of lemon cakes before she'd even had a sniff of one herself – such was the extent of good will being shown to Jon upon his safe return.

Robb looked scandalised. "Where's my lemon cake?"

"You don't even like them," Sansa replied, wrinkling her nose.

While she was distracted with Robb, Arya reached across the table while she wasn't looking and helped herself to two.

"Arya!" Sansa cried, indignant.

"Now things are about to get deadly," Ned grinned, watching over his brood from a distance.

Catelyn laughed. "Full on war, if we're not careful."

"Robb will be getting his first taste of real battle sooner than he bargained for."

Catelyn smiled broadly as her eldest son finally succeeded in his mission for pudding.

"Maybe not, but he's getting his first taste of lemon cake," she replied.

The atmosphere was too light, everyone too happy, for anything even remotely serious to happen. For those precious few hours they were just a family. A contented, happy family gathering for dinner. Catelyn was more than happy to sit back and watch over them all, listening to their playful banter. Even Greyjoy was joining in, although not as fully as the Starks. But it could not last – it never did.

"What do you know about the new Lord of the Dreadfort?" asked Cat, turning to where Ned sipped his wine. She had not touched hers.

"Domeric Bolton," he replied, eyes still on his children. "No doubt as keen to continue the enmity between our houses as his father was. But I believe he's been away at the Vale for many years."

Catelyn recalled something she heard once. "Barbrey was his aunt, as well. He served as her page for a few years."

Ned grimaced. "Gods, Cat. I clean forgot about that. Then there's his bastard, too. Ramsay."

Barrowton was up in the air. Lady Dustin named no heir and the male line of her house had died out with her father. Even Willam Dustin had no heirs' male. It would be left to King Robert to decide its fate. Either way, it was out of their hands. Ned sighed heavily.

"Kiss me, Catelyn," he said.

Happily, she obliged.

"Eurgh!" said Arya, screwing her face up as she caught sight of them.

Both Ned and Cat dissolved into helpless laughter.

That night, they retired early. Sending up the children not so long after the sun had gone down. Ned and Cat themselves remained a few hours in the solar, just lying in each other's arms until they too succumbed to tiredness. Before they retired, however, they looked in on Jon. He stirred in his sleep as they entered, but he did not wake. Dreamless and untroubled, he slept on.

* * *

The following morning, Ned watched as Jon bolted his breakfast. Finished before the others, he waited with impatience, tapping his foot gratingly. He was keen to get back into his normal routine after the week's interruption. However, Lord Stark had bad news for him. He approached the table with reluctance.

"Ser Rodrik's waiting for you boys," he said, to Robb and Theon. "Except Jon."

Robb barely looked up, but Jon's disappointment was palpable. "Why not? Father, I'm fine!"

"No, you're not," Ned insisted. "You're to rest up for today and come with me. We need to talk."

Jon looked as though he was going to protest further. There was a sharp intake of breath, his jaw dropped, but then he paused, clearly thinking better of it. Ned, in turn, managed to sketch a ghost of a smile.

"Come with me, now," he said, then led the way out.

On his way out of the Hall, he caught Catelyn's eye as she assisted one of the servants engaged in some household task or other. Just for a brief moment, she held his gaze and gave a small nod of encouragement. She understood his pain. It was written in the way she looked at them both. Other than that, no one bothered them as Ned led the way to the solar – the one part of the Castle where they could be alone and uninterrupted for the day. By the time they got there, the fire had been lit and the warmth spread evenly throughout the room.

Two chairs – normally occupied by himself and Catelyn after the children had gone to bed – were positioned either side of the wide hearth. However, while Jon settled in the one on the left, Ned paused over the fire itself and warmed his hands and gathered his thoughts. Other than that, the room was almost empty. Even the rushes had been swept away, ready to be replaced with fresh ones that afternoon. The fire gave off the warm scent of pinewood that afforded the wide room a more homely feel.

"Am I in trouble now? Because of what happened?"

Jon's tremulous voice jolted Ned out of his reverie with a start. He looking up at Ned wide-eyed and timid again.

"No! Not at all," replied Ned, quickly.

Pulling himself together, he drew the other chair closer to Jon's so that when he sat down, their knees were almost touching. Between them, the fire burned and pine logs crackled merrily, breaking the troubled silence that had settled between them. As difficult as it was, that close to the truth, for Ned to look Jon in the eye, he did it all the same.

"Father," said Jon, looking worried now. "Father, what is it?"

It hit Ned then, like a physical blow to the heart, that this was the final time he would hear Jon call him by that name, knowing it to be true. Where Catelyn was concerned, the truth really had set him free and brought him closer to her than ever before. But with Jon, it was the opposite. The truth would sever forever a sacred bond that had grown between them, regardless of how Ned viewed his own role in Jon's life. He had done all the things a father should and, some selfish part of his being even hoped that Jon would forget he ever had a mother and live forever in ignorance. But now, his parentage was an inescapable truth.

"Remember what you said last night, about no longer asking about your mother?"

Jon nodded. "I meant it; I don't want any more upset."

A knot twisted painfully somewhere over Ned's heart as he acknowledged the fact that Jon was only telling him what he wanted to hear. A touching gesture, but still not enough to be able to cover the truth any longer.

"The thing is, Jon, to stop any more upsets like that, you need to know the truth."

Ned watched Jon's reaction carefully, noting the brief flash of excitement in his eye. But he could also see the boy was keeping himself in check. He sat up straighter in his chair, never letting his gaze waver from Ned's.

"Everything?" he asked.

"Everything."

To that end, Ned drew a deep breath and prepared, once more, to journey back to the Tourney of Harrenhal.

* * *

Jon had already heard about the Tourney of Harrenhal, but he listened patiently to his father's story anyway. He had waited all his life for the truth and, he reasoned, another ten minutes or so could do no harm. But he still had that feeling of foreboding, the same he had with Barbrey Dustin, as his father relived the past and spoke affectionately of his sister, Lady Lyanna Stark. More than once, tears stood stagnant and shining in his father's eye, but he was tactful enough to pretend not to notice and he did not interrupt.

In that moment, he recalled the dream he had had while at Barrow Hall, where Lyanna – or someone very much like her – had wept while everyone else fought over him. But like all dreams, the memory of it had grown rapidly hazy. Meanwhile, his father continued talking about her, about things that they all knew, but never dared to speak of. The abduction, the rape and her miserable death. Only…

"We all thought Rhaegar abducted her," he was saying. "But only afterwards, I found out she left with him of her own free will. Lyanna loved Rhaegar and he loved her back."

"Why did you cover it up?" asked Jon, jarred by the lies that extended not only to King Robert, but to everyone else. "I can understand keeping it from the King. But everyone says he raped her and killed her."

Once again, the look in his father's eye became distant – almost as though he was privately reminiscing and Jon wasn't really there in the room at all. Even his voice was hushed, barely above a whisper as he went over it all.

"We had to lie, Jon," replied Ned. "If the truth ever came out, then…"

Somewhere, in some unacknowledged part of Jon's mind, dots were slowly connecting. Every time his father's voice foundered and he seemed to lose his tongue, Jon's imagination was left to fill in the gaps. He knew if he dwelled too long on the places it was leading him, he would grow fearful and bail. But he had to feel that fear and go on regardless.

"If Rhaegar didn't kill her, what did?" asked Jon.

In the end, the hammer blow of the truth fell swiftly.

"Giving birth to Rhaegar's baby," replied Lord Stark. "Giving birth to you."

Jon felt as though he'd been thrown over a sheer cliff and was now free-falling through an endless sky and struggling to get a hold of something, anything, to catch his plunging fall. But with everything he thought he knew crumbling away, there was nothing. The only spark of recognition came, from of all places, Lady Dustin. She knew. She told him that Lyanna went with Rhaegar willingly. A seed of truth that had made her story almost water-tight. Finally, it was as though a piece and fallen into place and provided him with something to latch on to. Something that finally made some sense. His father was lying, just like her.

"No," he retorted, shaking his head. "You're just saying what Lady Dustin said to keep me quiet-"

"No, I'm not," Ned cut over him.

Jon tried to stand up, but his knees were weak. It was his father who reacted quick enough to catch his fall and hold him steady.

"Lady Dustin suspected the truth," he explained, firmly. "That was why she was studying you that night at the Dreadfort. She thought you would be a Targaryen through and through-"

"I am not a Targaryen!" Jon lashed out, forcing himself from out of Lord Stark's grip by digging his elbows sharply into his ribs. After struggling free, Jon faced Lord Stark from a distance, defiant and angry. "I am not a Targaryen!" he insisted, with more force than he realised he had. "I'm not even a Stark; I'm … I'm Snow. Nothing and nobody!"

Ned was rubbing his sides, where Jon had elbowed him painfully. The expression in his eyes, however, was one of emotional desolation. After a pause and a few deep breaths, he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Jon, please," he pleaded. "Sit back down and we can talk properly. I know you must have so many questions-"

"You don't know anything!" Jon spat back at him, inching further towards the door. "You've lied about everything. Absolutely everything!"

He had no brothers, no sisters and no parents. Just a sham family in a sham life that had been built on lies. His was a rage he could not even express with articulate language. Instead, he bolted for the door and strode through the corridors ignoring the looks and greetings of all he passed. He thought that being away from his 'father' would make it easier to think – as it had with Lady Dustin. But all that happened was that his emotions were free to explode, unchecked and untethered, as he searched the castle for somewhere to put his rage.

Once outside, he paused by Mikken's forge in an effort to catch his breath and clear his head. But he was too far gone, now. Once stationary, he felt the irresistible urge to get moving again. Compelling him further was the sight of his 'brother' nearby, when he had no desire whatsoever to speak or see anyone named 'Stark'. Ducking inside the currently empty forge, he paused by the fires to try and gather his wits. But the pickaxe caught his eye before that could happen. A flash of inspiration hit and he grabbed it by the wooden handle, reassuringly heavy and solid in his hands.

Then, he strode across the yard with it, towards the crypts. As tears of fury and anguish finally spilled down his face, he knew what he was going to do with all this stagnant fury. He would take it, and smash in the stone face of his lying bitch of a mother. The hatred he felt for her was unlike anything else and he knew he would not be able to rest until the last trace of her existence was lying in rubble at his feet. His only regret was that Rhaegar Targaryen didn't have one – then he could have had the pleasure of doing the same to him.

He entered the crypts, dragging his pickaxe behind him and listening to the jarring grate of it against the flagstone floor. He ignored the older statues, homing in on the far end of the crypts, where he knew her statue stood. Lit torches stood in sconces on the wall, but there still wasn't nearly enough light to see by. But Lyanna's statue was visible enough. Jon fixed it in his line of sight, suddenly numb. When he reached her feet, he let the pickaxe fall for a moment while he swiped the drying tears from his face. Then, he looked up at her properly.

He could see her face, grey and expressionless. Moss was beginning to gather on her cheeks and in the folds of her stone gown. Some part of him knew he was being irrational. But the greater part of him was still too furious to listen. Leaning down, he gripped the handle of the pickaxe in both hands, straining to raise it high as possible over his left shoulder as he prepared to take the first swing at her. For the lies she had told; for the lives that had been sacrificed; for her dying … and leaving him all alone in this world.

He hesitated as his feelings swelled once more. A storm of grief, or anger at all the lies, or just plain heartbreak – he could barely tell them apart anymore. But as he resolved himself to take that first swing of the pickaxe once more, someone else fell into step behind him. Then someone else's hands took a hold of the handle, removing some of the weight from his own shoulders. Someone else whispered in his ear: "Jon, think about what you are doing."

He turned around to find himself face to face with Lady Stark, who took his weapon from him and let it fall to the side. There was no anger or antipathy in her expression now, and he knew it was because Lord Stark had already told her the truth. It was not just him that had been lied to; it was her, too. Now, she was treating him like he was made of wildfire and set to explode at any moment.

"Sit with me a while," she said, guiding him to the floor at his mother's stonework feet. "Let's talk before you do anything hasty."

All the while, renewed tears were welling in his eyes again. A surge of grief for a mother he would never have, as the one he had always feared stepped into the void. Catelyn shushed him like she did her own, soothing him like a child to diffuse the impending detonation. It was better late than never.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading. I know I said this would be the last chapter, but it looks like at least one more to go before the epilogue. Thanks again.**


	13. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!

What memories Catelyn had of her own mother were either real, or vivid re-enactments of what other people had told her about the late Lady of Riverrun. She wasn't sure which. Therefore, her mother was a distant notion; a nebulous semi-life that lingered on in her memory like the last wisp of smoke long after the fire had been extinguished. But she knew her mother was dead. There was never a hope of her turning up out of the blue, or tracking her down in some distant, far flung region of the universe. It was all too painfully clear just what the effects of such false hopes were; written, as they were now, in the expression of the child she made furtive efforts at consoling.

While Jon composed himself – and to give herself time – she swept through the crypts and gathered the burning torches and set them around Lyanna's tomb. It was all they had to keep the grinding cold at bay. Once the last one was in place, the warmth and the light made it feel almost like home. Before lowering herself back to the floor, she looked down at him. He was sat with his back to his mother's effigy, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head bent down. To give him another minute, she retrieved the pickaxe and dragged it well away from him. All the way over to the tomb of her father in law, she propped it against the stony knees of Rickard Stark. They definitely wouldn't be needing it any more.

As she approached Jon again, he lifted his head and looked at her through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Suspicion oozed from his voice as he finally spoke to her.

"Why are you helping me? You could write to the King and have me killed."

Fair question, she thought to herself, then honoured him with the honest truth.

"Because you're not what I thought you were. It really is that simple. Besides, we would all be killed as well, for harbouring you."

Catelyn sat down beside him on the hard, cold floor. Smoothing out her skirts as they pooled at her feet, she tried to think of some other way to sweeten the reasons she had disliked the boy. But what could she say? Besides, the time for sweet lies was over, however well intended they were. In reality, it was not even the right time to be discussing their rocky relationship. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

"You are grieving," she stated. "You-"

"I'm not grieving!" Jon cut her off. "I don't care."

She glanced around the crypts, over to where the pickaxe lay abandoned in the shadows. "That's not what it looks like to me."

Jon sighed. "You always were a funny one."

"Don't think you can start being cheeky to me now," she admonished, but gently. Before the sting of the soft rebuke could set in, she pressed on: "If this was really of no consequence to you, why are you not out with the others, practising your archery and swordplay; carrying on as normal?"

She waited for an answer that, after a few minutes, she decided was not coming. The boy's defences were up, the shutters closing over his eyes as he tried to hide from the truth. The truth that he cared, he had always cared and that he continued to care, still. Before treading once more through the emotional death trap of Jon's emotions, she drew a deep breath.

"In a way, what Lord Stark has done couldn't be any crueller," she began. "By refusing to speak about your mother, he's kept a false hope alive that she could come back one day, and you would be reunited, living together happily ever after. For all these years, she's been alive in your head. But you know now, she is dead and your happily ever after will not come. All of this could have been avoided with the simple truth."

It was more than that. Not only was his mother dead, but his father, too; along with his siblings. But in his head, Jon had never had those siblings or that father. It was Lyanna who was opening the most immediate wounds; Rhaegar would come later. Meanwhile, Catelyn could see that she had peeled back some of the defences. Jon had turned away from her again, his face buried in his arms. She could hear stifled sniffs. But now she had acknowledged the painful truth, it was time to put it in its rightful context.

"On the other hand," she began again. "If you look at why Lord Stark did what he did, it was for the purest motive. Love. Love for his sister; love for you; to save your life and keep you safe. He risked everything, while trying to safeguard everyone else. Not even I knew the truth, simply because it was too dangerous to know."

She suspected he already knew; that what she was saying wasn't helping in the slightest. But she had to try and make him see reason. When she looked at him, he simply looked slumped and defeated. The thoughts and feelings inevitably filling his head were beyond the emotional range of any boy his age, so the unenviable task of guiding him through it fell to her. All the while, he remained ominously silent.

"Do you understand why Lord Stark did it?"

Fearing that referring to Ned as "your father" would provoke him, she kept to the formal title. Luckily, it worked and Jon finally lifted his head from his arms, to look at her and nod.

"Because I'm a Targaryen bastard," he replied, shakily. "They'll kill me for it."

Catelyn shrugged. "I think you're every inch a Stark, personally."

"But I'm not a Stark. My real father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

"Being born in a sty doesn't make you a pig," she pointed out.

Her metaphor drew just the faintest of smiles from Jon, but it faded swiftly. Soon, he was frowning at the dark flagstones again.

"But Lord Stark can't love me very much if he's willing to lie to me, for all my life."

"Maybe it's because he loves you so much that he lied to you in the first place?" she countered. "The alternative was handing you over to the Lannisters and Baratheons to be butchered. But just imagine if you brought a child home to rear as your own. How long would it take for you to think of that child as your own? Don't you think Lord Stark withheld the truth, just a little, because he knew that coming clean would cost him a son he loves dearly? Selfish, I know. But love is always selfish, to a degree."

All this talk of love was embarrassing him, she could tell. But it all needed to be said. Ned had been a father to the child from the moment he was born and Jon needed to know that, before he tied himself in knots over Rhaegar Targaryen.

"But they started a war," he said, looking up at her again. "What they did, I mean, my mother and father."

She could see the shame reflected in his wide, dark eyes. If there was one way in which he was Ned Stark writ small, it was his ability to absorb the sins of others and brood over them like hatching chickens.

"Aerys, the Mad King, started a war when he burned your Grandfather and lynched your Uncle Brandon. They went to Kings Landing in peace, to ask that Lyanna be returned to them safely. Aerys could easily have complied and help soothe their worries. Instead, he had them butchered in front of a crowd of terrified Courtiers. It was that which provoked the fury of the North; it was that which convinced Robert that Lyanna was in grave danger."

There was always a temptation to reduce the causes of war down to one neat, simple event. But it was always more complicated than that. The reasons built up over years and decades; a slowly simmering cauldron of resentment gradually boiling over. One single event may prove a deadly catalyst, but the bedrock was always a maze of crossed pride and years of abuse, with a sprinkling of self-interest on the side. Jon, at last, looked quietly mollified.

"I won't be allowed to do anything now, will I?"

Catelyn frowned. "Why ever not?"

"Because it's too dangerous," he replied, crestfallen. "And I might go mad."

"You won't go mad, Jon, I promise you," she assured him. "Only the … how can I put this? You're not... What I mean is, your mother and father were not brother and sister. You stand a much better chance than most of that bloodline."

Was Rhaegar inbred? Catelyn could no longer remember, but it was more than likely. Rhaella Targaryen, most probably was his mother. After all these years of forgetting that most unfortunate of dynasties, the finer points of their frighteningly interwoven roots escaped her. Either way, Jon was not one of them. He was every inch a Stark; every sinew in his body steeped in the Northern snows.

"You still have options, I think," she eventually added. "Maybe they are more limited than others, but you still have more than one choice. A career at Court is probably best avoided. But, what's to stop you staying here, at Winterfell, and serving Robb? I don't know how you feel about him now, but he still looks at you as a brother. As do Sansa and Arya and Bran. When Robb is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he will need all the help he can get. It will be expected of you as his brother."

If there was one thing Ned got right, despite her hostility, it was breeding a genuine love between the 'brothers'. One would never be a threat to the other.

"You've also got time," she said, conclusively. "You've got time to adapt, and time to make your mind up later. Don't make any hasty decisions."

He didn't look much happier for their talk. But this was a pain that couldn't be magicked away with just one small pep-talk. It was going to take time; some days would be better than others. But if they pulled together, Catelyn knew they could make it work.

"Robb won't want me here when he knows what I am. I would be a danger to him and his heirs. I am a danger to everyone who knows me. Lady Dustin knew the truth; others probably do as well. I'll only be safe when I'm dead."

"Nonsense," Catelyn retorted. "Dustin was clutching at straws and now she's dead. She had no proof; just a vendetta to destroy this family. And you are part of this family. You have Stark blood and no one can take that away from you. Soon, you'll also have the Stark name."

Catelyn smiled as he perked up a little.

"Really?" he asked.

If she had known the truth, it would have happened as soon as Ned arrived back at Winterfell with Jon in his arms. She would have found a way, but it was all too late now. Now, she had to allow these great changes to take effect in her relationship with Jon, while making sure she had a convincing story for why she was suddenly letting it happen. Barbrey Dustin's treachery would provide an excellent starting block.

"I'll speak to your father about it now," she said, bringing their talk to a close. Now, she knew, he needed time on his own, to think things through rationally. "And Jon, you know he must remain your father, don't you?"

Jon nodded. "I know."

Catelyn got up to leave. Before she walked away, however, she turned to look at him again. She hesitated before speaking again, wondering whether she was being over-cautious. Giving herself a mental shakedown, she carried on walking away, only to reach the doorway and change her mind again. He had turned to face his mother's effigy by the time she made it back there.

"Jon, one more thing," she said, drawing his attention back to her.

"Yes?"

"Of all the people who must never know who you really are, Theon Greyjoy is nearing the top of their ranks."

She could never bring herself to trust that boy, but the children looked at the Ironborn as extended family. It made her stomach turn. Jon's brow creased in incomprehension, but he nodded all the same.

* * *

Once he was alone, Jon drew a deep breath. Drained and exhausted, he no longer had any anger left in him. Just an empty acceptance of the bare facts. But it was better than the feeling of free falling through his own life. Once Lady Stark had left the crypt, following her cryptic warning about Theon Greyjoy, he turned back to the effigy of his mother. He remembered his father – and he could not think of Ned Stark as anything other than his father – commenting that the stone mason had not captured her beauty. So, he stood on his tip-toes and studied her face closely. But it was beyond him to imagine life, colour and beauty where only cold, grey stone existed.

He recalled the dream he had had while still captive at Barrowton. It had been her, he was sure of it. She was crying silently; making her own light and perfuming the air with blue winter roses. Reaching out with one hand, he cupped her face, but flinched away from the cold, rough surface immediately. An effigy could never fill the void left by a flesh and blood human being – less still a mother. Jon knew that, but it didn't stop the swell of grief rising through his gut.

Remembering the incident with the pickaxe, grief suddenly clashed with guilt and he wanted, more than anything, to say that he was sorry. Sorry for judging her; sorry for wanting to harm what pale traces of her remained. Unable to remain there any longer, he turned and walked away. If he stayed any longer, he knew he would break down again and he couldn't keep doing that.

He had lost track of time, while down in the crypts. But when he emerged back into the open again, it was still broad daylight, making him wince as he adjusted to the light. All around him, life continued as normal. Mikken in his forge, with his newly mended water pipes; Robb and Theon in the yard, practising with Rodrick. He could see Sansa in the Glass Garden with Arya and Septa Mordane; their silly little friend Jeyne Poole trailing through the strawberry beds. But for him, nothing was as it should be.

Still in a daze, he passed through it all numbly, ignoring the cheers called out to him from the yard. He wished he could still feel part of it, but he just couldn't. He certainly couldn't reconcile himself to a life of being looked after and secreted away by other people. Contrary to what Lady Stark had said, he could think of only place where he would be safe from the truth, and still be able to stand on his own two feet: the Night's Watch. He had been drawn to it before, but now it was virtually irresistible.

Lost in his own thoughts, he entered Winterfell and almost walked straight into Lord Stark. Apologising hastily, he looked up at the man he still, deep down, thought of as his father. His own inner-turmoil was reflected back at him in his deep, grey eyes. For one painful, drawn out moment, the two of them simply looked at one another. Jon had no idea what to say or do; colour rose in his face as he glanced furtively all about him. At first, he went to step around the man, but somehow, he ended up in his arms instead, in a tight hug. Now, he didn't even care who saw. After another moment, his father leaned down to whisper in his ear: "Come with me; there's something I want to show you."

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; there really is only the prologue to go now and I'm hoping it will be up at least before Christmas. However, if real life does conspire against me, have a lovely holiday, however you celebrate it. Thank you once more.**


	14. Something Like Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you again! Apologies for the late update, but Christmas and New Year, and all its attendant disruptions, fell between the last chapter and this one. This is the last chapter, so again, thank you for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following. It's been great fun to write.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Something Like Happiness**

Maybe it wasn't the right time. Maybe there never would be a right time. But not so long ago, Ned would have said the same of a lot of things. So, he reasoned, he might as well get it over and done with. Then, they could rebuild and incorporate the truth into their own defences. Never again could uncertainties be used against them like that. He paused outside the main door of the Castle, allowing Jon to catch him up after becoming separated by a gaggle of passing servants. Because despite the shattering revelations, life in the castle continued uninterrupted and sweetly oblivious to what had occurred.

"What is it you want to show me?" asked Jon, as soon as he was back by Ned's side.

For the moment, he didn't wish to say anything. "Just follow me."

Seemingly accustomed to the all new levels of crypticism, Jon said no more and merely followed Ned. Occasionally, he had to jog to keep apace with him and almost ran into him when he stopped to talk to Maester Luwin out in the courtyard. Ned had to put out his hand to prevent the collision.

"Maester, send Robb down to the crypts in a half-hour," he instructed Luwin. "Alone."

Emphasising the word _'alone'_ to indicate that he didn't mean _'alone except for Theon Greyjoy'_ Luwin's chain of many metals clanked as he nodded his head and turned off towards the yard where Robb was still in training with Ser Rodrick. Meanwhile, Jon looked up Ned, troubled.

"You're telling Robb?"

Still, Ned was reluctant to talk outdoors. He headed towards the crypts, where Jon had not long come from. Only once inside again, with the entrance barred – even Robb would have to knock and wait for admittance – did Ned finally feel able to talk. Inside, it was as Jon left it. The torches still burned from the brackets set around Lyanna's tomb, lighting up her stone, moss-freckled face. Ned paused before her, studying her intently for several long moments before reaching up with his right hand to feel down the length of her statue.

All the while, Jon watched as though transfixed by the strange ritual. His dark eyes darted between Ned and Lyanna's tomb, as if there was an actual exchange occurring between them. He didn't dare speak, as though the sound of his voice might break some spell between brother and long-dead sister. Ned was oblivious to Jon's curious look and continued searching the length of the statue, until he reached her feet. It was only then that it became clear that he was in fact searching for something in particular. Under any other circumstances, Ned would have congratulated himself on doing such a thorough job of hiding the item to the point where even he had forgotten exactly how to access it. But, soon, the brick worked loose. It was below the platform on which her likeness was fixed. Then, even that only gave way onto a dark emptiness strewn with ancient cobwebs.

Jon knelt down beside Ned, squinting to get a look inside but couldn't make anything out. After instructed Jon to fetch one of the torches to light the compartment, Ned produced the hunting knife he wore at his belt. Then, he prised up a false floor that creaked as stone rubbed against stone as it was lifted out completely. Jon could see something, then. Something wrapped in cloth that was now dirty and worn with age.

Carefully, Ned unwrapped the cloth. It was an old swaddling cloth was meant to be used on a baby – probably Robb, given how long it had been there. Eventually, a nondescript tin box appeared from beneath the fabric. Battered and tarnished, it didn't look like much. But once it was in his hands, Ned cradled it as though it were a newborn infant – carefully, preciously.

"Put that back," he instructed Jon, nodding towards the burning torch he still held. "Before you burn yourself."

Jon's boots scuffed against the stone floor as he hurriedly scrambled back to his feet to replace the torch. An intense curiosity had begun to consume him, and he flopped back down next to his father that he almost landed square in his lap.

"Is it my mother's?" he asked.

Ned raised a pained smile as he picked at the lock on the box with one of Catelyn's hairpins. Unsurprisingly after so many years, it put up some resistance meaning Ned had to jab the sharp point in and twist to warp it out of shape and fit the mechanism. After several sharp twists of the pin, it gave way and opened to release a gust of musty earth and ancient dust. Jon was almost disappointed when Ned produced nothing more than a sheet of parchment from inside.

"Before you went to clear your head," Ned began, skating diplomatically over Jon's fleeing the room. "I tried to explain something. That when I found your mother in the Tower of Joy, she was under the protection of the King's Guard."

They had all been killed, that was all Jon knew. "Is that significant?"

"Of course," he replied, handing the parchment over to Jon. "Not even Lady Stark has been told this yet, but she will be. Look at it."

Jon looked down at the document, bearing the date of a marriage ceremony between Lyanna Stark and Rheagar Targaryen.

"But, Princess Elia?" he asked, despite knowing full well the Targaryens practised polygamy. Instantly, he dropped the document as though it had burned him. "I don't care what their practises were; it's not valid."

Ned only kept it because Jon, one day, would need the truth. It was up to him what he did with it after that. Out of everything they had, this was the most dangerous. Sharper than every sword in the Mikken's Forge and twice as deadly. But Jon needed to know who he really was; whether he accepted it or not.

"Then burn it and no one will ever know and no one will ever find out," Ned suggested. "But not right now. Wait and see how you feel."

"I will burn it," replied Jon, adamantly. "Then I'll burn the ash it leaves."

While he spoke, Ned reached back into the tin box and withdrew an item that caught and splintered the light. Jon fell silent again as it caught his eye, and sucked in a deep breath as Ned deposited the item in the palm of his outstretched hand. It was a silver locket embossed with the three headed dragon of the Targaryens. The words "Fire and Blood" were engraved on the front, with tiny rubies picking out the letters. Several of them were missing. Jon trembled as he held it in his palm, his breath shuddering in his chest as he tried to steady his breathing.

"Open it," Ned urged him gently.

He did so, struggling with the tiny clasp that held the two halves together. Inside were two miniature, finely detailed portraits. One showed a man in his middle twenties with silver hair and lilac eyes, but mostly he was obscured by a lock of raven dark hair tied with a blue silk ribbon pressed beneath the glass. Opposite him was Lyanna's likeness. Pale skinned, dark-eyed just like Jon, with her hair loose about her shoulders. She held a tiny blue rose delicately between long, tapering fingers.

"She was beautiful," he stated, shakily.

Jon went to hand it back, but Ned gently pushed his hand away. "It's yours now, but keep it hidden. Don't show it to a soul. I took it from Rhaegar's body after he fell at the trident. See where the rubies have fallen out the front."

Flushed with something like happiness, Jon glanced over the portraits once more before closing the locket and slipping it into his pocket for safe keeping. Even then, he let one hand hover protectively over the bulge where it lay beneath the fabric. "I'll keep it safe, I swear."

Ned smiled. The day had been long and fraught with emotion, but he held out hope of ending it on a cautiously optimistic note at the very least. Gently, he reached out and brushed loose strands of hair from Jon's face.

"They weren't bad people, you know?" he spoke so softly that not even an echo sounded down the old, cavernous chambers. "They were beautiful human beings, frail and flawed to a fault. Just like the rest of us. Over time, once it's all settled down again, it's only natural you'll be curious about them and what they were like. Both of them."

Already, he could sense that Jon had accepted that; even if he had not consciously acknowledged it.

"I know that now," Jon replied, glancing upwards to meet his father's gaze again. "But you raised me-"

"And you'll always be a son to me. No one can ever change that." Ned didn't mean to cut over Jon in such a way, but it was of utmost importance that he was reassured of his place in their home, at their hearth, as well as in their hearts. "Your place is at Winterfell."

Ned had heard of Jon's desire to join the Night's Watch and inwardly chided himself for discreetly trying to talk him out of it. But it was no lie; he needed Jon here at Winterfell – sworn to Robb and helping defend the North: together. But when Jon looked at him, brow knitted as he squinted through the poor light, he once more looked small and lost.

"I wish I was your son, in blood I mean," he said, plaintively.

Ned put an arm around his narrow shoulders, pulling him in tight. "You are my blood, Jon. Lyanna's blood is mine; you are hers. You're a Stark to the core and you'll take our name now. Lady Stark has agreed and I would have done it years ago."

He did not blame Catelyn for being so hurt while he forced her to live the greatest lie. But it had been necessary, until the truth came out.

"Won't people ask questions about her sudden change of heart?" he asked.

"Of course. We'll keep up the pretence that your mother was Wylla the wet nurse. The abduction shook Catelyn so much that she has agreed to prevent any further attempts on your life by giving you the Stark name. Things like that – what happened to you I mean – they change people."

It was as good as they would ever get.

"It's still a huge burden to carry alone," Ned added. "And you don't need to carry it alone. Help is all around here."

"But I can't tell anyone, ever."

Ned tightened his grip on the boy, just as a resounding knock came to the door of the crypt. Both of them having quite forgotten that Robb had already been summoned, jumped out of their skin.

"Who would you trust with your life, beside me?" asked Ned.

The knock came again.

"Father? It's freezing, let me in!"

"Robb!" said Jon, springing to his feet.

"Robb," repeated Ned, letting him run to the door. "Your brother will always have your back."

* * *

At first, Catelyn put the sickness down to the turmoil of the last few weeks. She ignored it as best she could, then carried on her daily routine. Days rolled past, gathering momentum as they built up into weeks. She busied herself with organising a dinner to celebrate Jon's legitimisation; a dinner that came and went with as much success as she could have hoped for. But really, it was just the family. The girls and their attendants. The boys and the Maester and Septa Mordane. After the dinner, before the sweet dishes were served, she kissed Jon's cheek in public for the first time. A gesture he returned with ease. A gesture that won her maddening looks of sympathy and, later, heartfelt words of encouragement for her wonderfully forgiving nature. They could never know the truth, of course, but nor could she keep up the pretence of animosity towards her nephew. But still, she carefully cultivated an air of separation between them when in public. Privately, at night when they were alone, they were making tentative steps towards civil conversation.

But still, the sickness continued even as normal life resumed. Then, she was late and her breasts began to ache. She didn't really need Maester Luwin to tell her what the real problem was. But still, she lay back on the bed and endured his examinations all the same. Afterwards, he looked down at her and smiled.

"The problem is one of two things, my lady," he said, gravely. "A boy or a girl."

He made that little jest every time he confirmed one of her pregnancies. She still found it funny and grinned from ear to ear as the news was confirmed. With four children already born to her, she scarcely turned a hair at the possible complications and was soon gathering herself to continue going about her business as usual.

"I'll take it easy later," she assured a fretting Maester Luwin as she swept from her chambers. "I promise!"

Ned was exactly where she thought he would be. Standing on the balcony, watching over the boys as they practised their swordplay. Soon enough, they would be wielding proper steel blades, rather than the wooden affairs they sparred with currently. But that was a worry for the future, too. Right now, only today mattered. Wrapping her fur cloak tighter around her shoulders, she came to a halt at Ned's side and felt his arms snaking gently around her waist. With a smile, he turned to her and kissed her cheek.

"How are they?" she asked, resting her face against his broad chest. Beneath his furs, she could hear that ever reassuring heartbeat.

"They're coming on good," he replied, full of hope. "They'll all be warriors, one day."

She watched, without really paying attention, as Robb and Jon fought together; unable to tell who was winning. Still, out of Tully pride, she silently rooted for Robb. Above her, Ned called out instructions to each of them in turn, encouraging them equally. However, a break was called in proceedings and Ned's attention was once more on her.

"We got a Raven from the Vale," said Ned as he walked her the length of the balustrade. "A delegation of Boltons went to fetch Lord Domeric, as planned, to bring him back to the Dreadfort. Even the bastard, Ramsay, went down there to get him. But Domeric died en route. Some say it was rather suspicious."

A brisk wind swept down from the North, chilling them both as Ned spoke. Shocked at the news, Catelyn craned her neck to see into Ned's face.

"That's awful news," she stated, brow creasing into a frown. "What will happen to the Dreadfort now?"

Ned shrugged. "The bastard gets it, I suppose. I don't know of anyone else."

"He can't inherit, Ned," she retorted. "Anyway, Robb didn't like that boy at all. Said he was very strange."

She added that as though it made any difference.

"Sadly, Robb's personal opinion doesn't come into it."

"More's the pity," replied Catelyn. "But never mind that, I have better news for you."

Ned paused after stepping in front of her. "Really?" he asked, wrapping both arms around her waist. "Which is...?"

"I am with child again."

It took a second for her news to register with him. But when it did, he beamed brightly before kissing her full on the lips. Laughing, kissing her and laughing at the same time, he swept her up off her feet and spun her round, making her skirts swirl on the slipstream.

* * *

"She must be having another baby." Robb observed as he looked up at Cat and Ned, still clinched in each other's arms on the balustrade.

Jon paused during the clear up and glanced over his shoulder.

"Because that's the only time they ever kiss each other, right?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he turned back to Robb.

"Like that?" he cocked one eyebrow. "Anyway, hurry up and come with me to the godswood."

It had been over a week since Robb had been entrusted with the truth. Sometimes, Jon wondered whether he even understood it; whether Robb appreciated just how lethal the situation was. Because outwardly, it changed nothing. Robb carried on as though it was hardly of any consequence. ' _You're my brother, that's all I know and care about,'_ he repeated whenever Jon attempted to raise the issue again.

But a sojourn to the godswood, where Theon would not bother them, sounded ominous. Jon hurried with packing away their sparring swords and followed him into their sacred space of the weirwood tree. It was always peaceful in there; tranquillity enforced by the silent, placid surface of the lake and silent, sombre heart tree whose leaves of ruby shone against the frozen backdrop of the North. Here, the old gods held vigil and the heart of the earth beat to a rhythm of its own. It was here that Jon felt most at home; like he was part of something far greater than any of them.

Robb spread out his cloak beneath the broad boughs of the heart tree, beside the lake. Once they were both sat down, they remained silent for at least a minute, ensuring no one else was around.

"How're you feeling now?" asked Robb, at length.

Jon raised a pained smile. It still felt unreal; like it was all happening to someone else or in a dream. But his emotions had settled. Often, at night before sleeping, he took the silver locket out from under his pillow and whispered a silent 'good night' to his mother. The night before, he directed the same sentiment to his birth father. His eye lingered over the place where the rubies had fallen from the front of the locket and felt a sharp, brief pang of grief for the father he would never know. Those empty spaces represented a narrative cut short; glory cut down in its prime and a space where the story lost its voice – all wrapped in one. Perhaps, one day, the world would know the truth about Rhaegar Targaryen, but Jon still did not feel like it was his story to tell. But still, he kept the marriage certificate. It was back in Lyanna's tomb for safe keeping.

"I'm happy now," he finally answered Robb's question.

A small smile spread across his face as he recalled that locket, still stashed beneath his pillow. He could recall ever detail of his mother's painted face. But Robb looked painfully serious as he met Jon's gaze.

"When father dies, I will need you here with me," he said, a tremor in his voice. Jon had never heard him sound so vulnerable before. "You will be useless to me, on the Wall. You belong here."

"I know that," replied Jon. He had already made up his mind. "My sword is yours, Robb. Always."

There, in the godswood, they joined hands and grasped each other tightly. Jon's smile grew more confident as he added:

"From this day, to my last."

* * *

**The End.**

**Thank you once more to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It really means a lot. Any final comments would be very welcome.**

**A few people have been in touch, asking whether I will be writing for this fandom again. I will, but I don't yet know what. It's either going to be a sequel to this, or an alternative to this where Lyanna is actually alive somewhere. Which would be pure wish fulfilment, but still something I'd be keen to try and get away with. Anyway, whatever's next, I will be back. Thank you!**


End file.
